I  I) 


I 


LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


PRESENTED  BY 

Mr.    H.    H.    Kil iani 


UCSB  LIBRARY 


MODESTE    M1GNON. 


H.    DE     BALZAC 


MODESTE    MlGNON 


AND   OTHER    STORIES 


TRANSLATED    BY 


CLARA    BELL 


WITH    A    PREFACE   BY 


GEORGE    SAINTSBURY 


*&• 


PHILADELPHIA 

THE  GEBBIE  PUBLISHING  Co.,  Ltd. 
1898 


CONTENTS 


PREFACE 
MODESTE   MIGNON 


HONORINE 


288 


FACING   CANE 375 


LIST  OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

MODESTE  MIGNON Frontispiece 

PAGE 

"  DUMAY,   GUARD   MY   LAST  CHILD  AS  A   BULL-DOG  MIGHT  "  .         24 

"  I  WILL  NEVER   MARRY   WITHOUT   MY  FATHER'S   CONSENT  "  .      IOO 

"YOU  WILL  MAKE  ME  DRUNK,"   SAID  THE  CLERK         .  .          .      233 

"  I   AM  CONQUERED,"   SAID  SHE 367 

Drawn  by  D.  Murray-Smith. 


PREFACE. 

"  MODESTE  MIGNON  "  occupies  a  very  peculiar  place  in 
Balzac's  works — a  place  indeed,  which,  though  for  the  form's 
sake  more  than  anything  else  the  author  has  connected  it  with 
the  rest  of  the  "  Comedie  "  by  some  repetition  of  personages, 
is  almost  entirely  isolated.  I  think  it  has  puzzled  some  devoted 
Balzacians — so  much  so  that  I  have  seen  it  omitted  even  from 
lists  of  his  works  suitable  to  "  the  young  person,"  in  which  it 
surely  should  have  had  an  eminent  place.  As  it  is  distinctly 
late — it  was  written  in  1844,  and  nothing  of  combined  mag- 
nitude and  first-class  importance  succeeded  it  except  "  Les  Pa- 
rents Pauvres  " — it  may  not  impossibly  serve  as  a  basis  for  the 
expectation  that  if  Balzac,  after  his  re-establishment  in  Paris  as 
a  wealthy  personage,  had  received  a  new  lease  of  life  and  vigor 
instead  of  a  sentence  of  death,  we  might  have  had  from  him  a 
series  of  works  as  different  from  anything  that  he  had  com- 
posed before  as  "  Modeste  Mignon  "  is  from  her  sisters. 

In  saying  this,  I  do  not  mean  to  put  the  book  itself  in  the 
very  first  class  of  its  author's  work.  It  is  too  much  of  an  ex- 
periment for  that — of  an  experiment  as  far  as  the  heroine  is 
concerned,  the  boldness  and  novelty  of  which  is  likely  to  be 
underestimated  by  almost  any  reader,  unless  he  be  a  literary 
student  who  pays  strict  attention  to  times  and  seasons.  Even 
in  England  (though  Charlotte  Bronte  was  planning  her  at  this 
very  time)  the  willful,  unconventional  heroine  was  something 
of  a  novelty ;  and  when  it  is  remembered  how  infinitely  stricter 
was  the  standard  of  the  French  ingenue,  until  quite  recently, 
than  it  ever,  even  in  the  depths  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
was  in  England,  the  audacity  of  the  conception  of  Modeste 
may  be  at  least  generally  appreciated.  And  it  is  specially  im- 
portant to  observe  that  though  the  author  puts  in  Charles 

(ix) 


x  PREFACE. 

Mignon's  mouth  a  vindication  of  the  French  process  of  tying 
a  girl  hand  and  foot  and  handing  her  over  to  the  best  bidder 
as  a  husband,  instead  of  allowing  her  to  choose  for  herself, 
Modeste's  audacity  in  pursuing  the  opposite  method  is  crowned 
with  complete  success,  if  not  with  success  of  exactly  the  kind 
that  she  anticipated.  Except  the  case  of  Savinien  de  Porten- 
duere  and  Ursule  Mirouet,  hers  is,  so  far  as  I  can  remember, 
the  only  exam  pie  in  the  whole  "Comedie"  of  a  love-marriage 
which,  as  we  are  told,  was  wholly  successful,  without  even 
vacillations  on  the  wife's  part  or  relapses  on  the  husband's. 
It  is  true  that,  with  a  slight  touch  of  cowardice  or  concession, 
Balzac  has  made  Modeste  half  a  German  ;  but  this  is  a  very 
venial  bowing  in  the  porch,  not  the  chancel,  of  the  House  of 
Rimmon. 

Whether  the  young  lady  is  as  entirely  successful  and  as  en- 
tirely charming  as  she  is  undeniably  audacious  in  conception, 
is  not  a  point  for  equally  positive  pronouncement.  Just  as  it 
was  probably  necessary  for  Balzac,  in  order  not  to  outrage  the 
feelings  of  his  readers  too  much,  to  put  that  Teutonic  strain  in 
Modeste,  so  he  had,  in  all  probability,  to  exhibit  her  as 
capricious  and  almost  unamiable,  in  order  to  attain  the  fitness 
of  things  in  connection  with  so  terrible  a  young  person.  It 
is  certain  that  even  those  who  by  no  means  rejoice  in  pattern 
heroines,  even  those  who  "like  them  rather  wicked,"  may 
sometimes  think  Modeste  nasty  in  her  behavior  to  her  family, 
to  Butscha,  and,  perhaps,  to  her  future  husband.  She  is,  for 
instance,  quite  wrong  about  the  whip,  which  she  might  have 
refused  altogether,  but  could  not  with  decency  accept  from 
one  person  and  refuse  from  another.  But  what  has  just  been 
said  will  cover  this  and  other  petulances  and  outbursts.  So 
"  shoking  "  a  young  person  (it  is  very  cheerful  and  interesting 
to  think  how  much  more  exactly  that  favorite  vox  nihili  of 
French  speech  expresses  French  than  English  sentiment)  could 
not  but  behave  "shokingly." 

Most  of  the  minor  characters  are  good  :  Butscha,  a  difficult 


PR&FACZ.  xi 

and,  in  any  case,  slightly  improbable  personage,  is,  in  his  own 
way,  very  good,  indeed.  It  was  probably  necessary  for  Bal- 
zac, in  turning  the  usual  scheme  of  the  French  novel  upside 
down,  to  provide  a  rather  timid  hero  for  such  a  masterful 
heroine;  and  it  must  be  admitted  that  Ernest  de  la  Briere  is  a 
rather  preternaturally  good  young  man.  Still,  he  is  not  mawk- 
ish ;  and  except  that  he  should  not  have  given  Modeste  quite 
such  a  valuable  present,  he  behaves  more  like  a  gentleman  in 
the  full  English  sense  than  any  other  of  Balzac's  heroes. 

The  very  full,  very  elaborate,  and  very  unfavorable  portrait 
of  Canalis  offers  again  much  scope  for  difference  of  mere  taste 
and  opinion,  without  the  possibility  of  laying  down  a  conclu- 
sion very  positively.  Even  if  tradition  were  not  unanimous 
on  the  subject,  it  would  be  quite  certain  that  Canalis  is  a 
direct  presentment  of  Lamartine,  from  whom  he  is  so  ostenta- 
tiously dissociated.  And  there  can,  of  course,  be  no  two 
opinions  as  to  the  presentment  being  very  distinctly  unfavor- 
able— much  more  so  than  the  earlier  introductions  of  this  same 
Canalis,  which  are  either  complimentary  or  colorless  for  the 
most  part,  though  his  vanity  is  sometimes  hinted  at.  I  do  not 
know  whether  Balzac  had  any  private  quarrel  with  the  poet,  or 
whether  Lamartine's  increasing  leanings  toward  republicanism 
exasperated  the  always  monarchical  novelist.  But  it  is  certain 
that  Canalis  cuts  rather  a  bad  figure  here — that  Lamartine 
was  actually  supposed  to  have  married  for  money — and  that 
the  whole  thing  has  more  of  the  nature  of  a  personal  attack 
than  anything  else  in  Balzac,  except  the  outbreak  against 
Sainte-Beuve  in  "  Un  Prince  de  la  Boheme." 

Perhaps  it  should  be  added  that  the  practice  of  correspond- 
ence between  incognitas  and  men  of  letters,  not  unknown  in 
any  country,  has  been  rather  frequent  and  famous  in  France. 
The  chief  example  is,  of  course,  that  interchange  of  communi- 
cations between  Merimee  and  Mile.  Jenny  Dacquin,  which 
had  such  important  results  for  literature,  and  such  not  unim- 
portant ones  for  the  parties  concerned.  Balzac  himself 


xii  PREFACE. 

rejoiced  in  a  Modeste  called  Louise,  whom,  however,  he 
seems  never  to  have  seen  ;  and  there  is  little  doubt  that 
Lamartine  the  actual  was  attacked,  as  the  fictitious  Canalis 
boasts  that  he  was,  by  scores  of  such  persons.  The  chief  in- 
stance I  can  think  of  in  which  such  a  correspondence  led  to 
matrimony  was  that  of  Southey  and  his  second  wife,  Caroline 
Bowles. 

The  history  of  "  Modeste  Mignon  "  is  short  and  simple. 
It  was  first  given  to  the  public  in  the  spring  and  summer  of 
1844  by  the  "Journal  des  Debats,"  and  before  the  end  of  the 
year  it  appeared  in  four  volumes,  published  by  Roux  and 
Cassanet.  It  had  here  seventy-five  chapter  divisions,  with 
headings.  In  1845,  scarcely  twelve  months  after  its  first 
appearance,  it  took  its  place  in  the  "Comedie." 

The  story  of  "  Honorine  "  contains  some  of  Balzac's  pro- 
foundest  observations,  better  stated  than  is  usual,  or,  at  least, 
invariable,  with  him.  The  best  of  all  are  certain  axioms,  dis- 
puted rather  than  disputable,  as  to  the  difference  of  men's  and 
women's  love.  The  book  suffers  to  some  extent  from  that 
artistic  fault  of  the  recitation,  rather  than  the  story  proper,  to 
which  he  was  so  prone,  and  perhaps  a  little  from  the  other 
proneness — so  constantly  to  be  noted  in  any  complete 
critique  of  him — to  exaggerate  and  idealize  good  as  well  as 
ill.  But  it  is,  as  his  abomination  Sainte-Beuve  said  of  another 
matter,  an  essai  noble  (a  great  sketch)  ;  and  it  is  not,  as  Sainte- 
Beuve  also  said  of  that  matter  which  had  nothing  to  do  with 
Balzac,  an  essai  pale  (light  sketch). 

"  Facino  Cane  "  first  saw  the  light  in  the  "  Chronique  de 
Paris  "  of  March  17,  1836.  Next  year  it  became  an  "  Etude 
Philosophique"  (Philosophical  Study).  It  had  another  grouped 
appearance  with  "Albert  Savaron,"  etc.,  in  1843,  an^  entered 
the  "  Comedie  "  the  year  after. 

G.  S. 


MODESTB    MIGNON. 

To  a  Polish  Lady. 

Daughter  of  an  enslaved  land,  an  angel  in  your  love, 
a  demon  in  your  imagination,  a  child  in  faith,  an  old 
man  in  experience,  a  man  in  brain,  a  woman  in  heart, 
a  giant  in  hope,  a  mother  in  suffering,  a  poet  in  your 
dreams,  and  Beauty  itself  withal — this  work,  in  which 
your  love  and  your  fancy,  your  faith,  your  experience, 
your  suffering,  your  hopes,  and  your  dreams,  are  like 
chains  by  which  hangs  a  web  less  lovely  than  the 
poetry  cherished  in  your  soul — the  poetry  whose  ex- 
pression when  it  lights  up  your  countenance  is,  to  those 
who  admire  you,  what  the  characters  of  a  lost  language 
are  to  the  learned — this  work  is  yours. 

DE  BALZAC. 

IN  the  beginning  of  October,  1829,  Monsieur  Simon-Babylas 
Latournelle,  a  notary,  was  walking  up  the  hill  from  le  Havre 
to  Ingouville  arm  in  arm  with  his  son,  and  accompanied  by 
his  wife.  By  her,  like  a  page,  came  the  notary's  head  clerk,  a 
little  hunchback  named  Jean  Butscha.  When  these  four  per- 
sons— of  whom  two  at  least  mounted  by  the  same  way  every 
evening — reached  the  turn  in  the  zigzag  road  (like  what  the 
Italians  call  a  Cornice),  the  notary  looked  about  him  to  see 
whether  any  one  might  overhear  him  from  some  garden  ter- 
race above  or  below,  and  as  an  additional  precaution  he  spoke 
low. 

"Exupere,"  said  he  to  his  son,  "try  to  carry  out  in  an 
intelligent  manner,  without  guessing  at  the  meaning,  a  little 
manoeuvre  I  will  explain  to  you ;  and  even  if  you  have  a  sus- 
picion, I  desire  you  will  fling  it  into  the  Styx  which  every 

(1) 


2  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

notary  or  law-student  ought  to  keep  handy  for  other  people's 
secrets.  After  paying  your  respects,  homage,  and  devoir  to 
Madame  and  Mademoiselle  Mignon,  to  Monsieur  and  Mad- 
ame Dumay,  and  to  Monsieur  Gobenheim,  if  he  is  at  the 
chalet,  when  silence  is  restored,  Monsieur  Dumay  will  take 
you  aside  ;  look  attentively — I  allow  you — at  Mademoiselle 
Modeste  all  the  time  he  is  talking  to  you.  My  worthy  friend 
will  ask  you  to  go  out  for  a  walk  and  return  in  about  an  hour, 
at  about  nine  o'clock,  with  a  hurried  air  ;  try  to  seem  quite  out 
of  breath,  then  whisper  in  his  ear,  but  loud  enough  for  Made- 
moiselle Modeste  to  hear :  '  The  young  man  is  coming  ! ' ' 

Exupere  was  to  start  for  Paris  on  the  following  day  to 
begin  his  law  studies.  It  was  this  prospect  of  departure  which 
had  led  Latournelle  to  propose  to  his  friend  Dumay  that  his 
son  should  play  the  assistant  in  the  important  conspiracy 
which  may  be  suspected  from  his  instructions. 

"  Is  Mademoiselle  Modeste  suspected  of  carrying  on  an 
intrigue?  "  asked  Butscha  timidly  of  his  mistress. 

"  Hsh — Butscha!"  replied  Madame  Latournelle,  taking 
her  husband's  arm. 

Madame  Latournelle,  the  daughter  of  the  registrar  of  the 
lower  court,  considers  herself  justified  by  her  birth  in  describ- 
ing her  family  as  parliamentary.  These  pretensions  account 
for  the  efforts  made  by  the  lady,  whose  face  is  rather  too  red 
and  rough,  to  assume  the  majesty  of  the  tribunal  whose  ver- 
dicts are  recorded  by  her  father.  She  takes  snuff,  holds  her- 
self as  stiff  as  a  post,  gives  herself  airs  of  importance,  and 
looks  exactly  like  a  mummy  that  has  been  galvanized  into 
life  for  a  moment.  She  tries  to  give  her  sharp  voice  an  aris- 
tocratic tone,  but  she  no  more  succeeds  in  that  than  in  con- 
cealing her  defective  education.  Her  social  value  is  indisput- 
able when  you  look  at  the  caps  she  wears,  bristling  with 
flowers,  the  false  fronts  plastered  on  her  temples,  and  the 
gowns  she  chooses.  How  could  the  stores  get  rid  of  such 
goods  if  it  were  not  for  such  as  Madame  Latournelle? 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  3 

This  worthy  woman's  absurdities  might  have  passed  almost 
unremarked,  for  she  was  essentially  charitable  and  pious,  but 
that  nature,  which  sometimes  has  its  little  jest  by  turning  out 
these  grotesque  creations,  gave  her  the  figure  of  a  drum-major 
so  as  to  display  the  devices  of  her  provincial  mind.  She  has 
never  been  out  of  le  Havre,  she  believes  in  the  infallibility  of 
le  Havre,  she  buys  everything  at  le  Havre,  and  gets  her  dresses 
there ;  she  speaks  of  herself  as  Norman  to  the  finger-tips ;  she 
reverences  her  father  and  adores  her  husband.  Little  Latour- 
nelle  was  bold  enough  to  marry  this  woman  when  she  had 
attained  the  post-matrimonial  age  of  thirty-three,  and  they 
contrived  to  have  a  son.  As  he  might  anywhere  have  won 
the  sixty  thousand  francs  which  the  registrar  had  to  settle,  his 
unusual  courage  was  set  down  to  a  wish  to  avoid  the  irruption 
of  the  Minotaur,  against  which  his  personal  attractions  would 
hardly  have  guaranteed  him  if  he  had  been  so  rash  as  to  set 
his  house  on  fire  by  bringing  home  a  pretty,  young  wife.  The 
notary  had,  in  fact,  simply  discerned  the  good  qualities  of 
Mademoiselle  Agnes — her  name  was  Agnes — and  remarked 
how  soon  a  wife's  beauty  is  a  thing  of  the  past  to  her  husband. 
As  to  the  insignificant  youth  to  whom  the  registrar  gave  his 
Norman  name  at  the  font,  Madame  Latournelle  was  so  much 
astonished  to  find  herself  a  mother  at  the  age  of  thirty-five 
years  and  seven  months,  that  she  would  even  now  find  milk 
to  suckle  him  withal  if  he  needed  it — the  only  hyperbole  which 
can  give  a  notion  of  her  maternal  mania. 

"  How  handsome  my  boy  is  !  "  she  would  say  to  her  little 
friend  Modeste  Mignon,  without  any  ulterior  motive,  as  she 
looked  at  him  on  their  way  to  church,  her  beautiful  Exupere 
leading  the  way. 

"He  is  like  you,"  Modeste  Mignon  would  reply,  as  she 
might  have  said,  "  What  bad  weather  !  " 

This  sketch  of  the  woman,  a  mere  accessory  figure,  seems 
necessary  when  it  is  said  that  Madame  Latournelle  had  for 
three  years  past  been  the  chaperon  of  the  young  girl  for  whom 


4  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

the  notary  and  his  friend  Dumay  were  laying  one  of  those 
snares  which,  in  the  "Physiologic  du  Manage,"  I  have  called 
mouse-traps. 

As  for  Latournelle,  imagine  a  good  little  man,  as  wily  as  the 
purest  honesty  will  allow,  but  whom  every  stranger  would  take 
for  a  rogue  at  first  sight  of  the  singular  face,  to  which  every 
one  at  le  Havre  is  accustomed.  Weak  eyes,  always  red,  compel 
the  worthy  lawyer  to  wear  green  spectacles  to  protect  them. 
Each  eyebrow,  thinly  marked  with  down,  projects  about  a  line 
beyond  the  brown  tortoise-shell  rim  of  the  glasses,  thus  making 
a  sort  of  double  arch.  If  you  never  happen  to  have  noticed 
in  some  passer-by  the  effect  of  these  two  semicircles,  one  above 
the  other  and  divided  by  a  hollow,  you  cannot  conceive  how 
puzzling  such  a  face  may  be ;  especially  when  this  face  is  pale 
and  haggard,  and  ends  in  a  point  like  that  of  Mephistopheles, 
which  painters  have  taken  from  the  cat,  and  this  is  what 
Babylas  Latournelle  is  like.  Above  those  vile  green  spec- 
tacles rises  a  bald  skull,  with  a  wig  all  the  more  obviously 
artificial  because  it  seems  endowed  with  motion  and  is  so  in- 
discreet as  to  show  a  few  white  hairs  straggling  below  it  all 
around,  while  it  never  sits  straight  on  the  forehead.  As  we 
look  at  this  estimable  Norman,  dressed  in  black  like  a  beetle, 
on  two  legs  like  pins,  and  know  him  to  be  the  most  honest 
soul  living,  we  wonder,  but  cannot  discover,  what  is  the  reason 
of  such  contradictory  physiognomies. 

Jean  Butscha,  a  poor,  abandoned  foundling,  of  whom  the 
Registrar  Labrosse  and  his  daughter  had  taken  charge,  had 
risen  to  be  head  clerk  by  sheer  hard  work,  and  was  lodged  and 
fed  by  his  master,  who  gave  him  nine  hundred  francs  a  year. 
With  no  appearance  of  youth  and  almost  a  dwarf,  he  had  made 
Modeste  his  idol ;  he  would  have  given  his  life  for  her.  This 
poor  creature,  his  eyes,  like  two  slow  matches  under  thickened 
eyelids,  marked  by  the  smallpox,  crushed  by  a  mass  of  woolly 
hair,  encumbered  by  his  huge  hands,  had  lived  under  the  gaze 
of  pity  from  the  age  of  seven.  Is  not  this  enough  to  account 


MODESTE   MIGNON.  5 

for  him  in  every  way?  Silent,  reserved,  exemplary  in  his 
conduct,  and  religious,  he  wandered  through  the  vast  expanse 
marked  on  the  map  of  the  realm  of  Love,  as  Love  without 
Hope,  the  barren  and  sublime  wilderness  of  Longing.  Mo- 
deste  had  nicknamed  this  grotesque  clerk  "The  Mysterious 
Dwarf. "  This  led  Butscha  to  read  Walter  Scott's  romance,  and 
he  said  to  Modeste — 

"Would  you  like  to  have  a  rose  from  your  Mysterious 
Dwarf  in  case  of  danger?" 

Modeste  hurled  the  soul  of  her  adorer  down  into  its  mud 
hovel  again  by  one  of  the  terrible  looks  which  young  women 
fling  at  men  whom  they  do  not  like.  Butscha  had  called 
himself  le  clerc  obscure  (the  obscure  clerk),  not  knowing  that 
the  pun  dated  back  to  the  origin  of  coats-of-arms ;  but  he, 
like  his  master's  wife,  had  never  been  away  from  le  Havre. 

It  is  perhaps  necessary,  for  the  benefit  of  those  who  do  not 
know  that  town,  to  give  a  word  of  explanation  as  to  whither 
the  Latournelle  family  was  bound,  the  head  clerk  evidently 
being  included.  Ingouville  is  to  le  Havre  what  Montmartre 
is  to  Paris,  a  high  hill  with  the  town  spread  at  its  foot ;  with 
this  difference,  however — that  the  sea  and  the  Seine  surround 
the  town  and  the  hill ;  that  le  Havre  is  permanently  limited 
by  enclosing  fortifications  ;  and,  finally,  that  the  mouth  of 
the  river,  the  port  and  the  docks,  form  a  scene  quite  unlike 
that  offered  by  the  fifty  thousand  houses  of  Paris. 

At  the  foot  of  Montmartre  an  ocean  of  slates  displays  its 
rigid  blue  waves  ;  at  Ingouville  you  look  down  on  what  might 
be  moving  roofs  stirred  by  the  wind.  This  high  ground, 
which,  from  Rouen  to  the  sea,  follows  the  course  of  the  river, 
leaving  a  wider  or  narrower  margin  between  itself  and  the 
water,  contains  treasures  of  picturesque  beauty  with  its  towns, 
its  ravines,  its  valleys,  and  its  meadows,  and  rose  to  immense 
value  at  Ingouville  after  1818,  from  which  year  dates  the 
prosperity  of  le  Havre.  This  hamlet  became  the  Auteuil,  the 
Ville-d'Avray,  the  Montmorency  of  the  merchants,  who  built 


6  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

themseleves  terraced  villas  on  this  amphitheatre,  to  breathe  the 
sea-air  sweetened  by  the  flowers  of  their  magnificent  gardens. 
These  bold  speculators  rest  there  from  the  fatigues  of  the  count- 
ing-house and  the  atmosphere  of  the  closely  packed  houses, 
with  no  space  between  them — often  not  even  a  courtyard,  the 
inevitable  result  of  the  growth  of  the  population,  the  un- 
yielding belt  of  the  ramparts  and  the  expansion  of  the  docks. 
And,  indeed,  how  dreary  is  the  heart  of  the  town,  how 
glad  is  Ingouville !  The  law  of  social  development  has  made  the 
suburb  of  Graville  sprout  into  life  like  a  mushroom  ;  it  is  larger 
now  than  le  Havre  itself,  clinging  to  the  foot  of  the  slope  like 
a  serpent.  Ingouville,  on  the  ridge,  has  but  one  street ;  and, 
as  in  all  such  places,  the  houses  looking  over  the  Seine  have  an 
immense  advantage  over  those  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
road,  from  which  the  view  is  shut  out,  though  they  stand  like 
spectators,  on  tiptoe,  to  peep  over  the  roofs.  Here,  however, 
as  everywhere  else,  compromises  have  been  exacted.  Some 
of  the  houses  perched  on  the  top  occupy  a  superior  position, 
or  enjoy  a  right  of  view  which  compels  their  neighbor  to  keep 
his  buildings  below  a  certain  height.  Then  the  broken  rocky 
soil  has  cuttings  here  and  there  for  roads  leading  up  to  the 
amphitheatre,  and  through  these  dips  some  of  the  plots 
get  a  glimpse  of  the  town,  the  river,  or  the  sea.  Though  it 
is  not  precipitous,  the  high  ground  ends  rather  suddenly  in  a 
cliff;  from  the  top  of  the  street,  which  zigzags  up  the  steep 
slope,  coombes  are  visible  where  villages  are  planted  :  Saint- 
Adresse,  two  or  three  Saints-who-knows-who,  and  coves  where 
the  sea  roars.  This  side  of  Ingouville,  almost  deserted,  is  in 
striking  contrast  to  the  handsome  villas  that  overlook  the  Seine 
valley.  Are  the  gales  a  foe  to  vegetation  ?  Do  the  merchants 
shrink  from  the  expense  of  gardening  on  so  steep  a  slope  ? 
Be  this  as  it  may,  the  traveler  by  steamboat  is  startled  at  find- 
ing the  coast  so  bare  and  rugged  to  the  west  of  Ingouville — a 
beggar  in  rags  next  to  a  rich  man  sumptuously  clothed  and 
perfumed. 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  7 

In  1829,  one  of  the  last  houses  toward  the  sea — now,  no 
doubt,  in  the  middle  of  Ingouville — was  called,  perhaps  is 
still  called,  the  chalet.  It  had  been  originally  a  gatekeeper's 
lodge,  with  a  plot  of  garden  in  front.  The  owner  of  the  villa 
to  which  it  belonged — a  house  with  a  paddock,  gardens,  an 
aviary,  hot-houses,  and  meadows — had  a  fancy  to  bring  this 
lodge  into  harmony  with  the  splendor  of  his  residence,  and 
had  it  rebuilt  in  the  style  of  an  English  cottage.  He  divided 
it  by  a  low  wall  from  his  lawn,  graced  with  flowers,  borders 
and  the  terrace  of  the  villa,  and  planted  a  hedge  close  to  the 
wall  to  screen  it.  Behind  this  cottage,  called  the  chalet  in 
spite  of  all  he  could  do,  lie  the  kitchen-garden  and  orchards. 
This  chalet — a  chalet  without  cows  or  dairy — has  no  fence 
from  the  road  but  a  paling,  of  which  the  wood  has  become 
invisible  under  a  luxuriant  hedge. 

Now,  on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  the  opposite  house  has 
a  similar  paling  and  hedge.  Being  built  under  special  con- 
ditions it  allows  the  town  to  be  seen  from  the  chalet. 

This  little  house  was  the  despair  of  Monsieur  Vilquin,  the 
owner  of  the  villa.  And  this  is  why  :  The  creator  of  this 
residence,  where  every  detail  loudly  proclaimed,  "Here  mil- 
lions are  displayed  !  "  had  extended  his  grounds  into  the 
country  solely,  as  he  said,  not  to  have  his  gardeners  in  his 
pocket.  As  soon  as  it  was  finished,  the  chalet  could  only  be 
inhabited  by  a  friend. 

Monsieur  Mignon,  the  first  owner,  was  greatly  attached  to 
his  cashier,  and  this  story  will  prove  that  Dumay  fully  re- 
turned the  feeling ;  he  therefore  offered  him  this  little  home. 
Dumay,  a  stickler  for  formalities,  made  his  master  sign  a  lease 
for  twelve  years  at  three  hundred  francs  a  year ;  and  Monsieur 
Mignon  signed  it  willingly,  saying,  "  Consider,  my  dear 
Dumay,  you  are  binding  yourself  to  live  with  me  for  twelve 
years." 

In  consequence  of  events  to  be  here  related,  the  estates  of 
Monsieur  Mignon,  formerly  the  richest  merchant  in  le  Havre, 


8  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

were  sold  to  Vilquin,  one  of  his  opponents  on  'Change.  In 
his  delight  at  taking  possession  of  the  famous  Villa  Mignon, 
the  purchaser  forgot  to  ask  for  this  lease  to  be  canceled. 
Dumay,  not  to  hinder  the  sale,  would  at  that  time  have  signed 
anything  Vilquin  might  have  required ;  but  when  once  the 
sale  was  completed,  he  stuck  to  his  lease  as  to  a  revenge.  He 
stayed  in  Vilquin's  pocket,  in  the  heart  of  the  Vilquin  family, 
watching  Vilquin,  annoying  Vilquin ;  in  short,  Vilquin's  gad- 
fly. Every  morning,  at  his  window,  Vilquin  felt  a  surge  of 
violent  vexation  as  he  saw  this  gem  of  domestic  architecture, 
this  chalet  which  had  cost  sixty  thousand  francs,  and  which 
blazed  like  a  ruby  in  the  sunshine. 

An  almost  exact  comparison  !  The  architect  had  built  the 
cottage  of  the  finest  red-bricks,  pointed  with  white.  The 
window-frames  are  painted  bright  green  and  the  timbers  a 
yellow-brown.  The  roof  projects  several  feet.  A  pretty  fret- 
work balcony  adorns  the  first  floor,  and  a  verandah  stands  out 
like  a  glass  cage  from  the  middle  of  the  front.  The  first  floor 
consists  of  a  pretty  drawing-room  and  a  dining-room  divided 
by  the  bottom  landing  of  the  stairs,  which  are  of  wood  de- 
signed and  decorated  with  elegant  simplicity.  The  kitchen 
is  at  the  back  of  the  dining-room,  and  behind  the  drawing- 
room  is  a  small  room  which,  at  this  time,  was  used  by  Mon- 
sieur and  Madame  Dumay  as  their  bedroom.  On  the  second 
floor  the  architect  has  planned  two  large  bedrooms,  each  with 
a  dressing-room,  the  verandah  serving  as  a  sitting-room  ;  and 
above  these,  in  the  roof,  which  looks  like  two  cards  leaning 
against  each  other,  are  two  servants'  rooms,  attics,  each  with 
a  dormer  window,  but  fairly  spacious. 

Vilquin  had  the  meanness  to  build  a  wall  on  the  side  next 
the  kitchen-garden  and  orchard.  Since  this  act  of  vengeance, 
the  few  square  yards  secured  to  the  chalet  by  the  lease  are  like 
a  Paris  garden.  The  outbuildings,  constructed  and  painted 
to  match  the  chalet,  back  against  the  neighboring  grounds. 

The  interior  of  this  pleasant  residence  harmonizes  with  the 


MODESTE   MIGNON.  9 

exterior.  The  drawing-room,  floored  with  polished  iron-wood, 
is  decorated  with  a  marvelous  imitation  of  Chinese  lacquer. 
Myriad-colored  birds  and  impossible  green  foliage,  in  fantastic 
Chinese  drawing,  stand  out  against  a  black  background,  in 
panels  with  gilt  frames.  The  dining-room  is  completely 
fitted  with  pine-wood  carved  and  fretted,  as  in  the  high-class 
peasants'  houses  in  Russia.  The  little  anteroom,  formed  by 
the  landing,  and  the  staircase  are  painted  like  old  oak,  to 
represent  Gothic  decoration.  The  bedrooms,  hung  with 
chintz,  are  attractive  by  their  costly  simplicity.  That  in  which 
the  cashier  and  his  wife  slept  is  wainscoted,  like  the  cabin  of 
a  steamship.  These  shipowners'  vagaries  account  for  Vil- 
quin's  fury.  This  ill-starred  purchaser  wanted  to  lodge  his 
son-in-law  and  his  daughter  in  the  cottage.  This  plan,  being 
known  to  Dumay,  may  subsequently  explain  his  Breton 
obstinacy. 

The  entrance  to  the  chalet  is  through  a  trellised  iron  gate, 
with  lance-heads,  standing  some  inches  above  the  paling  and 
the  hedge.  The  little  garden,  of  the  same  width  as  the  pom- 
pous lawn  beyond,  was  just  now  full  of  flowers — roses,  dahlias, 
and  the  choicest  and  rarest  products  of  the  hot-house  flora ; 
for  another  subject  of  grievance  to  Vilquin  was  that  the  pretty 
little  hot-house,  madame's  hot-house  as  it  was  called,  belongs 
to  the  chalet,  and  divides  the  chalet  from  the  villa — or  con- 
nects them,  if  you  like  to  say  so.  Dumay  indemnified  him- 
self for  the  cares  of  his  place  by  caring  for  the  conservatory, 
and  its  exotic  blossoms  were  one  of  Modeste's  chief  pleasures. 
The  billiard-room  of  Vilquin' s  villa,  a  sort  of  passage-room, 
was  formerly  connected  with  this  conservatory  by  a  large 
turret-shaped  aviary,  but  after  the  wall  was  built,  which  blocked 
out  the  view  of  the  orchard,  Dumay  bricked  up  the  door. 

"Wall  for  wall!  "said  he. 

"You  and  Dumay  have  both  gone  to  the  wall  !  "  Vilquin's 
acquaintances  on  'Change  threw  in  his  teeth ;  and  every  day 
the  envied  speculator  was  hailed  with  some  new  jest. 


10  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

In  1827  Vilquin  offered  Dumay  six  thousand  francs  a  year 
and  ten  thousand  francs  in  compensation  if  he  would  cancel 
the  lease ;  the  cashier  refused,  though  he  had  but  a  thousand 
crowns  laid  by  with  Gobenheim,  a  former  clerk  of  his  mas- 
ter's. Dumay  is  indeed  a  Breton  whom  fate  has  planted  out 
in  Normandy.  Imagine  the  hatred  for  his  tenants  worked  up 
in  Vilquin,  a  Norman  with  a  fortune  of  three  million  francs. 
What  high  treason  to  wealth  to  dare  prove  to  the  rich  the 
impotence  of  gold  !  Vilquin,  whose  desperation  made  him 
the  talk  of  le  Havre,  had  first  offered  Dumay  the  absolute 
freehold  of  another  pretty  house,  but  Dumay  again  refused. 
The  town  was  beginning  to  wonder  at  this  obstinacy,  though 
many  found  a  reason  for  it  in  the  statement,  "  Dumay  is  a 
Breton." 

In  fact,  the  cashier  thought  that  Madame  and  Mademoiselle 
Mignon  would  be  too  uncomfortable  anywhere  else.  His  two 
idols  dwelt  here  in  a  temple  worthy  of  them,  and  at  least  had 
the  benefit  of  this  sumptuous  cottage,  where  a  dethroned  king 
might  have  kept  up  the  majesty  of  his  surroundings,  a  kind  of 
decorum  which  is  often  lacking  to  those  who  have  fallen.  The 
reader  will  not  be  sorry  perhaps  to  have  made  acquaintance 
with  Modeste's  home  and  habitual  companions;  for,  at  her 
age,  persons  and  things  influence  the  future  as  much  as  char- 
acter does,  if,  indeed,  the  character  does  not  derive  from  them 
certain  ineffaceable  impressions. 

By  the  Latournelles'  manner  as  they  went  into  the  chalet, 
a  stranger  might  have  guessed  that  they  came  there  every 
evening. 

"  Already  here,  sir?"  said  the  notary,  on  finding  in  the 
drawing-room  a  young  banker  of  the  town,  Gobenheim,  a 
relation  of  Gobenheim-Keller,  the  head  of  the  great  Paris 
house.  This  young  fellow,  who  was  lividly  pale — one  of 
those  fair  men  with  black  eyes,  in  whose  fixed  gaze  there  is 
something  fascinating — who  was  as  sober  in  speech  as  in 
habits,  dressed  in  black,  strongly  built,  though  as  thin  as  a 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  11 

consumptive  patient,  was  a  constant  visitor  to  his  former  mas- 
ter's family  and  the  cashier's  house,  far  less  from  affection 
than  from  interest ;  whist  was  played  there  at  two  sous  a  point, 
and  evening  dress  was  not  insisted  on  ;  he  took  nothing  but  a 
few  glasses  of  eau  sucree,  and  need  offer  no  civilities  in  re- 
turn. By  his  apparent  devotion  to  the  Mignons  he  got  credit 
for  a  good  heart ;  and  it  excused  him  from  going  into  society 
in  le  Havre,  from  useless  expenditure,  and  disturbing  the 
arrangements  of  his  domestic  life.  This  youthful  devotee  of 
the  golden  calf  went  to  bed  every  evening  at  half-past  ten,  and 
rose  at  five  in  the  morning.  Also,  being  certain  of  secrecy 
in  Latournelle  and  Butscha,  Gobenheim  could  analyze  in  their 
presence  various  knotty  questions,  benefit  by  the  notary's 
gratuitous  advice  and  reduce  the  gossip  on  'Change  to  its  true 
value.  This  sucking  gold-eater  (Gobe-or,  a  witticism  of  Buts- 
cha's)  was  of  the  nature  of  the  substances  known  to  chemistry 
as  absorbents.  Ever  since  disaster  had  overwhelmed  the  house 
of  Mignon,  to  which  he  had  been  apprenticed  by  the  Kellers 
to  learn  the  higher  branches  of  maritime  trade,  no  one  at  the 
chalet  had  ever  asked  him  to  do  a  single  thing,  not  even  a 
simple  commission  ;  his  answer  was  known  beforehand.  This 
youth  looked  at  Modeste  as  he  might  have  examined  a  penny 
lithograph. 

"  He  is  one  of  the  pistons  of  the  huge  machine  called 
trade,"  said  poor  Butscha,  whose  wit  betrayed  itself  by  little 
ironies,  timidly  uttered. 

The  four  Latournelles  greeted,  with  the  utmost  deference, 
an  old  lady  dressed  in  black,  who  did  not  rise  from  the  arm- 
chair in  which  she  sat,  for  both  her  eyes  were  covered  with 
the  yellow  film  produced  by  cataract.  Madame  Mignon  may 
be  painted  in  a  sentence.  She  attracted  attention  at  once  by 
the  august  expression  of  those  mothers  whose  blameless  life  is 
a  challenge  to  the  strokes  of  fate,  though  fate  has  taken  them 
as  a  mark  for  its  shafts,  who  form  the  larger  class  of  Niobes. 
Her  white  wig,  well  curled  and  well  put  on,  became  her  cold 


12  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

white  face,  like  those  of  the  burgomasters'  wives  painted  by 
Mirevelt.  The  extreme  neatness  of  her  dress — velvet  shoes, 
a  lace  collar,  a  shawl  put  on  straight — bore  witness  to  Mo- 
deste's  tender  care  for  her  mother. 

When  a  minute's  silence — as  predicted  by  the  notary — 
reigned  in  the  pretty  room,  Modeste,  seated  by  her  mother, 
for  whom  she  was  embroidering  a  kerchief,  was  for  a  moment 
the  centre  of  all  eyes.  This  inquisitiveness,  concealed  under 
the  commonplace  questions  always  asked  by  callers,  even 
those  who  meet  every  day,  might  have  betrayed  the  little 
domestic  plot  against  the  girl,  even  to  an  indifferent  person  ; 
but  Gobenheim,  more  than  indifferent,  noticed  nothing ;  he 
lighted  the  candles  on  the  card-table.  Dumay's  attitude  made 
the  situation  a  terrible  one  for  Butscha,  for  the  Latournelles, 
and,  above  all,  for  Madame  Dumay,  who  knew  that  her  hus- 
band was  capable  of  shooting  Modeste's  lover  as  if  he  were  a 
mad  dog.  After  dinner,  the  cashier  had  gone  out  for  a  walk, 
taking  with  him  two  magnificent  Pyrenean  dogs,  whom  he 
suspected  of  treason,  and,  had  therefore,  left  with  a  farmer, 
formerly  a  tenant  of  Monsieur  Mignon's ;  then,  a  few  minutes 
before  the  Latournelles  had  come  in,  he  had  brought  his  pis- 
tols from  their  place  by  his  bed,  and  had  laid  them  on  the 
chimney-shelf,  without  letting  Modeste  see  it.  The  young 
girl  paid  no  attention  to  all  these  arrangements — strange,  to 
say  the  least  of  it. 

Though  short,  thick-set,  and  battered,  with  a  low  voice, 
and  an  air  of  listening  to  his  own  words,  this  Breton,  for- 
merly a  lieutenant  in  the  Guard,  has  determination  and  pres- 
ence of  mind  so  plainly  stamped  on  his  features  that,  in 
twenty  years,  no  man  in  the  army  had  ever  tried  to  make 
game  of  him.  His  eyes,  small  and  calmly  blue,  are  like  two 
specks  of  steel.  His  manners,  the  expression  of  his  face,  his 
mode  of  speech,  his  gait,  all  suit  his  short  name  of  Dumay. 
His  strength,  which  is  well  known,  secures  him  against  any 
offense.  He  can  kill  a  man  with  a  blow  of  his  fist ;  and,  in 


MODESTE   MIGNON.  13 

fact,  achieved  this  doughty  deed  at  Botzen,  where  he  found 
himself  in  the  rear  of  his  company,  without  any  weapon,  and 
face  to  face  with  a  Saxon. 

At  this  moment,  the  man's  set  but  gentle  countenance  was 
sublimely  tragical ;  his  lips,  as  pale  as  his  face,  betrayed  con- 
vulsive fury  subdued  by  Breton  determination ;  his  brow  was 
damp  with  slight  perspiration,  visible  to  all,  and  understood 
to  be  a  cold  moisture.  The  notary  knew  that  the  upshot  of 
all  this  might  be  a  scene  in  an  assize  court.  In  fact,  the 
cashier  was  playing  a  game  for  Modeste's  sake,  where  honor, 
fidelity,  and  feelings  of  far  more  importance  than  any  social 
ties,  were  at  stake ;  and  it  was  the  outcome  of  one  of  those 
compacts  of  which,  in  the  event  of  fatal  issues,  none  but  God 
can  be  the  judge.  Most  dramas  lie  in  the  ideas  we  form  of 
things.  The  events  which  seem  to  us  dramatic  are  only  such 
as  our  soul  turns  to  tragedy  or  comedy,  as  our  own  nature 
tends. 

Madame  Latournelle  and  Madame  Dumay,  charmed  with 
keeping  watch  over  Modeste,  both  had  an  indescribable  artifi- 
cial manner,  a  quaver  in  their  voice,  which  the  object  of 
their  suspicions  did  not  notice,  she  seemed  so  much  absorbed 
by  her  work.  Modeste  laid  each  strand  of  cotton  with  an 
accuracy  that  might  be  the  envy  of  any  embroiderer.  Her 
face  showed  the  pleasure  she  derived  from  the  satin-stitch 
petal  that  put  the  finish  to  a  flower.  The  hunchback,  sitting 
between  Madame  Latournelle  and  Gobenheirn,  was  swallow- 
ing tears  and  wondering  how  he  could  get  round  to  Modeste, 
and  whisper  two  words  of  warning  in  her  ear.  Madame 
Latournelle,  by  placing  herself  in  front  of  Madame  Mignon, 
had  cut  off  Modeste  with  the  diabolical  ingenuity  of  a  pious 
prude.  Madame  Mignon,  silent,  blind,  and  whiter  than  her 
usual  pallor,  plainly  betrayed  her  knowledge  of  the  ordeal  to 
which  the  girl  was  to  be  subjected.  Now,  at  the  last  moment, 
perhaps  she  disapproved  of  the  stratagem,  though  deeming  it 
necessary.  Hence  her  silence.  She  was  weeping  in  her 


14  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

heart.  Exupere,  the  trigger  of  the  trap,  knew  nothing  what- 
ever of  the  piece  in  which  chance  had  cast  him  for  a  part. 
Gobenheim  was  as  indifferent  as  Modeste  herself  seemed  to  be 
— a  consequence  of  his  nature. 

To  a  spectator  in  the  secret,  the  contrast  between  the  utter 
ignorance  of  one-half  of  the  party  and  the  tremulous  tension 
of  the  others  would  have  been  thrilling.  In  these  days,  more 
than  ever,  novel-writers  deal  largely  in  such  effects ;  and  they 
are  in  their  rights,  for  nature  has  at  all  times  outdone  their 
skill.  In  this  case,  as  you  will  see,  social  nature — which  is 
nature  within  nature — was  allowing  itself  the  pleasure  of  mak- 
ing fact  more  interesting  than  romance,  just  as  torrents  pro- 
duce effects  forbidden  to  painters  and  achieve  marvels  by 
arranging  or  polishing  stones  so  that  architects  and  sculptors 
are  amazed. 

It  was  eight  o'clock.  At  this  season  of  the  year  it  is  the 
hour  of  the  last  gleam  of  twilight.  That  evening  the  sky  was 
cloudless,  the  mild  air  caressed  the  earth,  flowers  breathed 
their  fragrance,  the  grinding  gravel  could  be  heard  under  the 
feet  of  persons  returning  from  their  walk.  The  sea  shone 
like  a  mirror. 

There  was  so  little  wind  that  the  candles  on  the  table 
burned  with  a  steady  flame  though  the  windows  were  half-open. 
The  room,  the  evening,  the  house — what  a  setting  for  the 
portrait  of  this  young  creature,  who  at  the  moment  was  being 
studied  by  her  friends  with  the  deep  attention  of  an  artist 
gazing  at  "  Margherita  Doni,"  one  of  the  glories  of  the  Pitti 
palace.  Was  Modeste,  a  flower  enshrined  like  that  of  Catul- 
lus, worthy  of  all  these  precautions?  You  have  seen  the 
cage  ;  this  is  the  bird  : 

At  the  age  of  twenty,  slender  and  delicately  made,  like  one 
of  the  sirens  invented  by  English  painters  to  grace  a  book  of 
beauty,  Modeste,  like  her  mother  before  her,  bears  the  engag- 
ing expression  of  a  grace  little  appreciated  in  France,  where 
it  is  called  sentimentality,  though  among  the  Germans  it  is 


MODESTE  M1GNON.  15 

the  poetry  of  the  heart  suffusing  the  surface,  and  displayed  in 
affectation  by  simpletons,  in  exquisite  manners  by  sensible 
girls.  Her  most  conspicuous  feature  was  her  pale  gold  hair, 
which  classed  her  with  the  women  called,  no  doubt  in  memory 
of  Eve,  blondes  celestes  (heavenly  fair),  whose  sheeny  skin  looks 
like  silk  paper  laid  over  the  flesh,  shivering  in  the  winter  or 
reveling  in  the  sunshine  of  a  look,  and  making  the  hand 
envious  of  the  eye.  Under  this  hair,  as  light  as  marabout 
feathers,  and  worn  in  ringlets,  the  brow,  so  purely  formed 
that  it  might  have  been  drawn  by  compasses,  is  reserved  and 
calm  to  placidity,  though  bright  with  thought ;  but  when  or 
where  could  a  smoother  one  be  found,  or  more  transparently 
frank?  It  seems  to  have  a  lustre  like  pearl.  Her  eyes,  of 
grayish  blue,  as  clear  as  those  of  a  child,  have  all  a  child's 
mischief  and  innocence,  in  harmony  with  the  arch  of  eye- 
brows scarcely  outlined,  as  lightly  touched  in  as  those  painted 
in  Chinese  faces.  This  playful  innocence  is  accentuated  by 
nacreous  tones,  with  blue  veins  round  the  eyes  and  on  the 
temples,  a  peculiarity  of  those  delicate  complexions.  Her 
face,  of  the  oval  so  often  seen  in  Raphael's  Madonnas,  is  dis- 
tinguished by  the  cool,  maidenly  flush  of  her  cheeks,  as  tender 
as  a  China  rose,  on  which  the  long  lashes  of  her  transparent 
eyelids  cast  a  play  of  light  and  shade.  Her  throat,  bent  over 
her  work,  and  slender  to  fragility,  suggests  the  sweeping  lines 
dear  to  Leonardo.  A  few  freckles,  like  the  patches  of  the 
past  century,  show  that  Modeste  is  a  daughter  of  earth  and 
not  one  of  the  creations  seen  in  dreams  by  the  Italian  school 
of  Angelico.  Lips,  full  but  finely  curved,  and  somewhat 
satirical  in  expression,  betray  a  love  of  pleasure.  Her  shape, 
pliant  without  being  frail,  would  not  scare  away  motherhood, 
like  that  of  girls  who  seek  to  triumph  through  the  unhealthy 
pressure  of  stays.  Buckram,  steel,  and  stay-lace  never  im- 
proved or  formed  such  serpentine  lines  of  elegance,  resem- 
bling those  of  a  young  poplar  swayed  by  the  wind.  A  pearl- 
gray  dress,  long  in  the  waist,  and  trimmed  with  cherry-colored 


16  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

gimp,  accentuated  the  pure  bust  and  covered  the  shoulders, 
still  somewhat  thin,  over  a  deep  muslin  tucker,  which  be- 
trayed only  the  outline  of  the  curves  where  the  bosom  joins 
the  shoulders.  At  the  sight  of  this  countenance,  at  once 
vague  and  intelligent,  with  a  singular  touch  of  determination 
given  to  it  by  a  straight  nose  with  rosy  nostrils  and  firmly-cut 
outlines — a  countenance  where  the  poetry  of  an  almost  mys- 
tical brow  was  belied  by  the  voluptuous  curve  of  the  mouth — 
where,  in  the  changing  depths  of  the  eyes,  candor  seemed  to 
fight  for  the  mastery  with  the  most  accomplished  irony — an 
observer  might  have  thought  that  this  young  girl,  whose  quick 
ear  caught  every  sound,  whose  nose  was  open  to  the  fragrance 
of  the  blue  flower  of  the  ideal,  must  be  the  arena  of  a  struggle 
between  the  poetry  that  plays  around  the  daily  rising  of  the 
sun  and  the  labors  of  the  day,  between  fancy  and  reality. 
Modeste  was  both  curious  and  modest,  knowing  her  fate,  and 
purely  chaste,  the  virgin  of  Spain  rather  than  of  Raphael. 

She  raised  her  head  on  hearing  Dumay  say  to  Exupere, 
"  Come  here,  young  man,"  and,  seeing  them  talk  together  in 
a  corner  of  the  room,  she  fancied  it  was  about  some  commis- 
sion for  Paris.  She  looked  at  the  friends  who  surrounded  her 
as  if  astonished  at  their  silence,  and  exclaimed  with  a  per- 
fectly natural  air — 

"  Well,  are  you  not  going  to  play  ?  "  pointing  to  the  green 
table  that  Madame  Latournelle  called  the  altar. 

"  Let  us  begin,"  said  Dumay,  after  dismissing  Exupere. 

"Sit  there,  Butscha  !  "  said  Madame  Latournelle,  placing 
the  table  between  the  clerk  and  the  group  formed  by  Madame 
Mignon  and  her  daughter. 

"  And  you — come  here,"  said  Dumay  to  his  wife,  desiring 
her  to  stay  near  him. 

Madame  Dumay,  a  little  American  of  six-and-thirty,  secretly 
wiped  away  her  tears;  she  was  devoted  to  Modeste  and 
dreaded  a  catastrophe. 

"  You  are  not  lively  this  evening,"  said  Modeste. 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  17 

"  We  are  playing,"  said  Gobenheim,  sorting  his  hand. 

However  interesting  the  situation  may  seem,  it  will  be  far 
more  so  when  Dumay's  position  with  regard  to  Modeste  is 
explained.  If  the  brevity  of  the  style  makes  the  narrative 
dry,  this  will  be  forgiven  for  the  sake  of  hastening  to  the  end 
of  this  scene,  and  of  the  need,  which  rules  all  dramas,  for 
setting  forth  the  argument. 

Dumay — Anne-Francois-Bernard — born  at  Vannes,  went  as 
a  soldier  in  1799,  joining  the  army  of  Italy.  His  father,  a 
president  of  the  revolutionary  tribunal,  had  distinguished 
himself  by  so  much  vigor  that  the  country  was  too  hot  to  hold 
the  son  when  his  father,  a  second-rate  lawyer,  perished  on  the 
scaffold  after  the  gth  of  Thermidor.  His  mother  died  of 
grief;  and  Anne,  having  sold  everything  he  possessed,  went 
off  to  Italy  at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  just  as  our  armies  were 
defeated.  In  the  department  of  the  Var  he  met  a  young  man 
who,  for  similar  reasons,  was  also  in  search  of  glory,  thinking 
the  battlefield  less  dangerous  than  Provence. 

Charles  Mignon,  the  last  survivor  of  the  family  to  whom 
Paris  owes  the  street  and  the  hotel  built  by  Cardinal  Mignon, 
had  for  his  father  a  crafty  man,  who  wished  to  save  his  estate 
of  la  Bastie,  a  nice  little  fief  under  the  Counts  of  Provence, 
from  the  clutches  of  the  revolution.  Like  all  nervous  people 
in  those  days,  the  Comte  de  la  Bastie,  now  Citizen  Mignon, 
thought  it  healthier  to  cut  off  other  heads  than  to  lose  his 
own.  This  supposed  terrorist  vanished  on  the  gth  of  Ther- 
midor, and  was  thenceforth  placed  on  the  list  of  emigres. 
The  fief  of  la  Bastie  was  sold.  The  pepper-caster  towers  of 
the  dishonored  chateau  were  razed  to  the  ground.  Finally, 
Citizen  Mignon  himself,  discovered  at  Orange,  was  killed 
with  his  wife  and  children,  with  the  exception  of  Charles 
Mignon,  whom  he  had  sent  in  search  of  a  refuge  in  the  de- 
partment of  the  Hautes-Alpes.  Charles,  stopped  by  these 
shocking  tidings,  awaited  quieter  times  in  a  valley  of  Mont 
2 


18  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

Genevre.  There  he  lived  till  1799  on  a  few  louis  his  father 
had  put  into  his  hand  at  parting.  At  last,  when  he  was 
three-and-twenty,  with  no  fortune  but  his  handsome  person — 
the  southern  beauty  which,  in  its  perfection,  is  a  glorious 
thing,  the  type  of  Antinous,  Hadrian's  famous  favorite — he 
resolved  to  stake  his  Provencal  daring  on  the  red  field  of  war, 
regarding  his  courage  as  a  vocation,  as  did  many  another. 
On  his  way  to  headquarters  at  Nice  he  met  the  Breton. 

The  two  infantrymen,  thrown  together  by  the  similarity  of 
their  destiny  and  the  contrast  of  their  nature,  drank  of  the 
torrent  from  the  same  cup,  divided  their  allowance  of  biscuit, 
and  were  sergeants  by  the  time  peace  was  signed  after  the 
battle  of  Marengo. 

When  war  broke  out  again,  Charles  Mignon  got  leave  to  be 
transferred  to  the  cavalry,  and  then  lost  sight  of  his  comrade. 
The  last  of  the  Mignons  of  la  Bastie  was,  in  1812,  an  officer  of 
the  Legion  of  Honor  and  major  of  a  cavalry  regiment,  hop- 
ing to  be  reinstated  as  Comte  de  la  Bastie  and  made  colonel 
by  the  Emperor.  Then,  taken  prisoner  by  the  Russians,  he 
was  sent  with  many  more  to  Siberia.  His  traveling  compan- 
ion was  a  poor  lieutenant,  in  whom  he  recognized  Anne 
Dumay,  with  no  decoration,  brave  indeed,  but  hapless,  like 
the  millions  of  rank-and-file  with  worsted  epaulettes,  the  web 
of  men  on  which  Napoleon  painted  the  picture  of  his  Empire. 
In  Siberia,  to  pass  the  time,  the  lieutenant-colonel  taught  his 
comrade  arithmetic  and  writing,  for  education  had  seemed 
unimportant  to  his  Scaevola  parent.  Charles  found  in  his 
first  traveling  companion  one  of  those  rare  hearts  to  whom  he 
could  pour  out  all  his  griefs  while  confiding  all  his  joys. 

The  Provencal  had,  ere  this,  met  the  fate  which  awaits 
every  handsome  young  fellow.  In  1804,  at  Frankfort-on-the- 
Main,  he  was  adored  by  Bettina  Wallenrod,  the  only  daughter 
of  a  banker,  and  married  her  with  all  the  more  enthusiasm 
because  she  was  rich,  one  of  the  beauties  of  the  town,  and  he 
was  still  only  a  lieutenant  with  no  fortune  but  the  most  un- 


MODESTE   M1GNON.  19 

certain  prospects  of  a  soldier  of  that  time.  Old  Wallenrod,  a 
decayed  German  Baron — bankers  are  always  barons — was  en- 
chanted to  think  that  the  handsome  lieutenant  was  the  sole 
representative  of  the  Mignons  of  la  Bastie,  and  approved  the 
affections  of  the  fair  Bettina,  whom  a  painter — for  there  was 
a  painter  then  at  Frankfort — had  taken  for  his  model  of  an 
ideal  figure  of  Germany.  Wallenrod,  who  already  thought 
of  his  grandsons  as  Comtes  de  la  Bastie- Wallenrod,  invested 
in  the  French  funds  a  sufficient  sum  to  secure  to  his  daughter 
thirty  thousand  francs  a  year.  This  dower  made  a  very  small 
hole  in  his  coffers,  seeing  how  small  a  capital  was  required. 
The  Empire,  following  a  practice  not  uncommon  among 
debtors,  rarely  paid  the  half-yearly  dividends.  Charles,  in- 
deed, was  somewhat  alarmed  at  this  investment,  for  he  had 
not  so  much  faith  in  the  Imperial  Eagle  as  the  German  Baron 
had.  The  phenomenon  of  belief,  or  of  admiration,  which  is 
only  a  transient  form  of  belief,  can  hardly  exist  in  illicit  com- 
panionship with  the  idol.  An  engineer  dreads  the  machine 
which  the  traveler  admires,  and  Napoleon's  officers  were  the 
stokers  of  his  locomotive  when  they  were  not  the  fuel.  Baron 
von  Wallenrod-Tustall-Bartenstild  then  promised  to  help  the 
young  people.  Charles  loved  Bettina  Wallenrod  as  much  as 
she  loved  him,  and  that  is  saying  a  great  deal ;  but  when  a 
Provencal  is  fired,  anything  seems  natural  to  him  in  the  matter 
of  feeling.  How  could  he  help  worshiping  a  golden-haired 
woman  who  had  stepped  out  of  a  picture  by  Albert  Diirer,  an 
angel  of  good  temper,  with  a  fortune  famous  in  Frankfort? 

So  Charles  had  four  children,  of  whom  only  two  daughters 
were  alive  at  the  time  when  he  poured  out  his  sorrows  on  the 
Breton's  heart.  Without  knowing  them,  Dumay  was  fond  of 
these  two  little  girls,  the  effect  of  the  sympathy  so  well  under- 
stood by  Charles,  who  shows  us  the  soldier  as  fatherly  to 
every  child.  The  elder,  named  Bettina  Caroline,  was  born  in 
1805  ;  the  second,  Marie  Modeste,  in  1808.  The  unhappy 
lieutenant-colonel,  having  had  no  news  of  those  he  loved, 


20  MODESTE   MIGNON. 

came  back  on  foot  in  1814,  with  the  lieutenant  for  his  com- 
panion, all  across  Russia  and  Prussia.  The  two  friends,  for 
whom  any  difference  of  rank  had  ceased  to  exist,  arrived  at 
Frankfort  just  as  Napoleon  landed  at  Cannes.  Charles  found 
his  wife  at  Frankfort,  but  in  mourning  ;  she  had  had  the 
grief  of  losing  the  father  who  adored  her,  and  who  longed 
always  to  see  her  smiling,  even  by  his  death-bed.  Old  Wal- 
lenrod  did  not  survive  the  overthrow  of  the  Empire.  At  the 
age  of  seventy-two  he  had  speculated  largely  in  cotton,  be- 
lieving still  in  Napoleon's  genius,  and  not  knowing  that  genius 
is  as  often  the  slave  of  events  as  their  master. 

The  last  of  the  Wallenrods,  the  true  Wallenrod-Tustall- 
Bartenstild,  had  bought  almost  as  many  bales  of  cotton  as  the 
Emperor  had  sacrificed  men  during  his  tremendous  campaign 
in  France. 

"I  am  tying  in  cotton  "  (I  am  dying  in  clover),  said  this 
father  to  his  daughter,  for  he  was  of  the  Goriot  species,  try- 
ing to  beguile  her  of  her  grief,  which  terrified  him,  "and  I 
tie  owing  noting  to  noboty  " — and  the  Franco-German  died 
struggling  with  the  French  language  his  daughter  loved. 

Charles  Mignon,  happy  to  have  saved  his  wife  and  daugh- 
ters from  this  double  shipwreck,  now  returned  to  Paris,  where 
the  Emperor  made  him  lieutenant-colonel  of  the  Cuirassiers 
of  the  Guard  and  commander  of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  The 
colonel  at  last  was  general  and  Count,  after  Napoleon's  first 
success ;  but  his  dream  was  drowned  in  torrents  of  blood  at 
Waterloo.  He  was  slightly  wounded,  and  retired  to  the 
Loire,  leaving  Tours  before  the  troops  were  disbanded. 

In  the  spring  of  1816  Charles  realized  the  capital  of  his 
thirty  thousand  francs  a  year,  which  gave  him  about  four  hun- 
dred thousand  francs,  and  decided  on  going  to  make  his 
fortune  in  America,  leaving  a  country  where  persecution 
already  pressed  hardly  on  Napoleon's  soldiers.  He  went 
from  Paris  to  le  Havre,  accompanied  by  Dumay,  whose  life 
he  had  saved  in  one  of  the  frequent  chances  of  war,  by  taking 


MODESTB  MIGNON.  21 

him  behind  him  on  his  horse  in  the  confusion  that  ended  the 
day  of  Waterloo.  Dumay  shared  the  colonel's  opinions  and 
despondency.  Charles,  to  whom  the  Breton  clung  like  a  dog, 
for  the  poor  infantryman  worshiped  the  two  little  girls,  thought 
that  Dumay's  habits  of  obedience  and  discipline,  his  honesty 
and  his  attachment,  would  make  him  a  servant  not  less  faith- 
ful than  useful.  He  therefore  proposed  to  him  to  take  service 
under  him  in  private  life.  Dumay  was  very  happy  to  find 
himself  adopted  into  a  family  with  whom  he  hoped  to  live 
like  mistletoe  on  an  oak. 

While  awaiting  an  opportunity  of  sailing,  choosing  among 
the  ships,  and  meditating  on  the  chances  offered  in  the  vari- 
ous ports  of  their  destination,  the  colonel  heard  rumors  of  the 
splendid  fortunes  that  the  peace  held  in  store  for  le  Havre. 
While  listening  to  a  discussion  between  two  of  the  natives, 
he  saw  a  means  of  making  his  fortune,  and  set  up  forthwith  as 
a  shipowner,  a  banker,  and  a  country  gentleman.  He  invested 
two  hundred  thousand  francs  in  land  and  houses,  and  freighted 
a  ship  for  New  York  with  a  cargo  of  French  silks  bought  at 
Lyons  at  a  low  figure,  Dumay  sailed  on  the  vessel  as  his 
agent.  While  the  colonel  was  settling  himself  with  his  family 
in  the  handsomest  house  in  the  Rue  Royale,  and  studying  the 
science  of  banking  with  all  the  energy  and  prodigious  acumen 
of  a  Provencal,  Dumay  made  two  fortunes,  for  he  returned 
with  a  cargo  of  cotton  bought  for  a  mere  song.  This  transac- 
tion produced  an  enormous  capital  for  Mignon's  business. 
He  then  purchased  the  villa  at  Ingouville,  and  rewarded 
Dumay  by  giving  him  a  small  house  in  the  Rue  Royale. 

The  worthy  Breton  had  brought  back  with  him  from  New 
York  with  his  bales  a  pretty  little  wife,  who  had  been  chiefly 
attracted  by  his  nationality  as  a  Frenchman.  Miss  Grummer 
owned  about  four  thousand  dollars  (twenty  thousand  francs), 
which  Dumay  invested  in  his  colonel's  business.  Dumay, 
now  the  alter  ego  of  the  shipowner,  very  soon  learned  book- 
keeping, the  science  which,  to  use  his  phrase,  distinguished  the 


22  MODESTE   MIGNON. 

sergeant-majors  of  trade.  This  guileless  soldier,  whom  fortune 
had  neglected  for  twenty  years,  thought  himself  the  happiest 
man  in  the  world  when  he  saw  himself  master  of  a  house — 
which  his  employer's  munificence  furnished  very  prettily — of 
twelve  hundred  francs  a  year  of  interest  on  his  capital,  and 
of  three  thousand  six  hundred  francs  in  salary.  Never  in  his 
dreams  had  Lieutenant  Dumay hoped  for  such  prosperity;  but 
he  was  even  happier  in  feeling  himself  the  hub  of  the  richest 
merchant's  house  in  le  Havre. 

Madame  Dumay  had  the  sorrow  of  losing  all  her  children 
at  their  birth,  and  the  disasters  of  her  last  confinement  left  her 
no  hope  of  having  any  ;  she  therefore  attached  herself  to  the 
two  Mignon  girls  as  affectionately  as  Dumay,  who  would  not 
have  loved  his  own  children  so  well.  Madame  Dumay,  the 
child  of  agriculturists,  accustomed  to  a  thrifty  life,  found  two 
thousand  four  hundred  francs  enough  for  herself  and  her 
housekeeping.  Thus,  year  by  year,  Dumay  put  two  thousand 
and  some  hundred  francs  into  the  Mignon  concern.  When 
the  master  made  up  the  annual  balance,  he  added  to  the 
cashier's  credit  a  bonus  in  proportion  to  the  business  done. 
In  1824  the  sum  to  the  cashier's  account  amounted  to  fifty- 
eight  thousand  francs.  Then  it  was  that  Charles  Mignon, 
Comte  de  la  Bastie,  a  title  that  was  never  mentioned,  crowned 
his  cashier's  joy  by  giving  him  a  lease  of  the  chalet,  where 
we  now  find  Modeste  and  her  mother. 

Madame  Mignon's  deplorable  condition  had  its  cause  in 
the  catastrophe  to  which  Charles'  absence  was  due,  for  her 
husband  had  left  her  a  still  handsome  woman.  It  had  taken 
three  years  of  sorrow  to  destroy  the  gentle  German  lady,  but 
it  was  one  of  those  sorrows  which  are  like  a  worm  lying  at 
the  heart  of  a  fine  fruit.  The  sum-total  of  her  woes  is  easily 
stated  :  Two  children  who  died  young  had  stamped  a  double 
ci-glt  on  a  soul  which  could  never  forget.  Charles'  captivity 
in  Siberia  had  been  to  this  dear  and  loving  heart  a  daily 
death.  The  disasters  of  the  great  Wallenrod  house  and  the 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  23 

unhappy  banker's  death  on  his  empty  money-bags,  coming  in 
the  midst  of  Bettina's  suspense  about  her  husband,  was  a 
final  blow.  The  joy  of  seeing  him  again  almost  killed  this 
German  floweret.  Then  came  the  second  overthrow  of  the 
Empire,  and  their  plans  for  emigration  had  been  like  relapses 
of  the  same  fit  of  fever. 

At  last  ten  years  of  constant  prosperity,  the  amusements  of 
her  home-life,  the  handsomest  house  in  le  Havre,  the  dinners, 
balls,  and  entertainments  given  by  the  successful  merchant, 
the  magnificence  of  the  Villa  Mignon,  the  immense  respect 
and  high  esteem  enjoyed  by  her  husband,  with  the  undivided 
affection  of  this  man,  who  responded  to  perfect  love  by  love 
equally  perfect — all  these  had  reconciled  the  poor  woman  to 
life. 

Then,  at  the  moment  when  all  her  doubts  were  at  rest,  and 
she  looked  forward  to  a  calm  evening  after  her  stormy  day,  a 
mysterious  disaster,  buried  in  the  heart  of  the  double  house- 
hold, and  presently  to  be  related,  came  like  a  summons  from 
misfortune.  In  1826,  in  the  midst  of  a  party,  when  all  the 
town  was  ready  to  return  Charles  Mignon  as  its  deputy,  three 
letters  (from  New  York,  London,  and  Paris)  came  like  three 
hammer-strokes  on  the  glass  house  of  prosperity.  In  ten 
minutes  ruin  swooped  down  with  vulture's  wings  on  this  un- 
heard-of good  fortune,  like  the  frost  on  the  Grande  Armee  in 
1812.  In  one  night  which  he  spent  with  Dumay  over  the 
books,  Charles  Mignon  was  prepared  for  the  worst.  It  would 
absorb  everything  he  possessed,  not  excepting  the  furniture, 
to  pay  everybody. 

"Le  Havre,"  said  the  colonel  to  the  lieutenant,  "shall 
never  see  me  in  the  mud.  Dumay,  I  will  take  your  sixty 
thousand  francs  at  six  per  cent. " 

"At  three,  colonel." 

"  At  nothing,  then,"  said  Charles  peremptorily.  "  I  make 
you  my  partner  in  my  new  enterprise.  The  '  Modeste,'  which 
is  no  longer  mine,  sails  to-morrow  ;  the  captain  takes  me  with 


24  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

him.  You — I  place  you  in  charge  of  my  wife  and  daughter. 
I  shall  never  write.  No  news  is  good  news." 

Dumay,  still  but  a  lieutenant,  had  not  asked  his  colonel  by 
a  word  what  his  purpose  was. 

"I  suspect,"  said  he  to  Latournelle,  with  a  knowing  air, 
"  that  the  colonel  has  laid  his  plans." 

On  the  following  morning,  at  break  of  day,  he  saw  his 
master  safe  on  board  the  good  ship  "  Modeste,"  bound  for 
Constantinople.  Standing  on  the  vessel's  poop,  the  Breton 
said  to  the  Provencal — 

"  What  are  your  last  orders,  colonel?" 

"That  no  man  ever  goes  near  the  chalet!"  cried  the 
father,  with  difficulty  restraining  a  tear.  "  Dumay,  guard  my 
last  child  as  a  bull-dog  might.  Death  to  any  one  who  may 
try  to  tempt  my  second  daughter!  Fear  nothing,  not  even 
the  scaffold.  I  would  meet  you  there  !  " 

"  Colonel,  do  your  business  in  peace.  I  understand.  You 
will  find  Mademoiselle  Modeste  as  you  leave  her,  or  I  shall 
be  dead  !  You  know  me,  and  you  know  our  two  Pyrenean 
dogs.  No  one  shall  get  at  your  daughter.  Forgive  me  for 
using  so  many  words." 

The  two  soldiers  embraced  as  men  who  had  learned  to  ap- 
preciate each  other  in  the  heart  of  Siberia. 

The  same  day  the  "  Courrier  du  Havre"  published  this 
terrible,  simple,  vigorous,  and  honest  leading  paragraph : 

"The  house  of  Charles  Mignon  has  suspended  payment, 
but  the  undersigned  liquidators  pledge  themselves  to  pay  all 
the  outstanding  debts.  Bearers  of  bills  at  date  can  at  once 
discount  them.  The  value  of  the  landed  estate  will  com- 
pletely cover  current  accounts. 

"  This  notice  is  issued  for  the  honor  of  the  house  and  to 
prevent  any  shock  to  general  credit  on  the  Havre  Exchange. 

"  Monsieur  Charles  Mignon  sailed  this  morning  in  the 
'  Modeste '  for  Asia  Minor,  having  left  a  power-of-attorney 


'  DUMAY,    GUARD    MY    LAST    CHILD    AS    A    BULL-DOC    MIGHT.' 


MODESTE   MIGNON.  25 

to  enable  us  to  realize  every  form  of  property,  even  landed 
estate. 

"  DUMAY,  Liquidator  for  the  Banking  Account. 

"  LATOURNELLE,  Notary,  Liquidator  for  the  Houses 
and  Land  in  Town  and  Country. 

"GoBENHEiM,  Liquidator  for  Commercial  Bills." 

Latournelle  owed  his  prosperity  to  Monsieur  Mignon's 
kindness;  he  had,  in  1817,  lent  the  notary  a  hundred  thou- 
sand francs  to  buy  the  best  business  in  le  Havre.  The  poor 
lawyer,  without  any  pecuniary  resources,  was  by  that  time 
forty  years  old  ;  he  had  been  a  head  clerk  for  ten  years,  and 
looked  forward  to  being  a  clerk  for  the  rest  of  his  days.  He 
was  the  only  man  in  le  Havre  whose  devotion  could  compare 
with  Dumay's,  for  Gobenheim  took  advantage  of  this  bank- 
ruptcy to  carry  on  Mignon's  connection  and  business,  which 
enabled  him  to  start  his  little  banking  concern.  While  uni- 
versal regret  was  expressed  on  'Change,  on  the  quays,  and  in 
every  home ;  while  praises  of  a  blameless,  honorable,  and 
beneficent  man  were  on  every  lip,  Latournelle  and  Dumay, 
as  silent  and  as  busy  as  emmets,  were  selling,  realizing, 
paying,  and  settling  up.  Vilquin  gave  himself  airs  of  gener- 
osity, and  bought  the  villa,  the  town-house,  and  a  farm,  and 
Latournelle  took  advantage  of  this  first  impulse  to  extract  a 
good  price  from  Vilquin. 

Every  one  wanted  to  call  on  Madame  and  Mademoiselle 
Mignon,  but  they  had  obeyed  Charles  and  taken  refuge  at  the 
chalet  the  very  morning  of  his  departure,  of  which  at  the 
first  moment  they  knew  nothing.  Not  to  be  shaken  in  his 
purpose  by  their  grief,  the  courageous  banker  had  kissed  his 
wife  and  daughter  in  their  sleep.  Three  hundred  cards  were 
left  at  the  door.  A  fortnight  later  the  most  complete  obliv- 
ion, as  Charles  had  prophesied,  showed  the  two  women  the 
wisdom  and  dignity  of  the  step  enjoined  on  them. 

Pumay  appointed  representatives  of  his  master  at  New  York, 


26  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

London,  and  Paris.  He  followed  up  the  liquidation  of  the 
three  banking  houses  to  which  Mignon's  ruin  was  due,  and 
between  1826  and  1828  recovered  five  hundred  thousand 
francs,  the  eighth  part  of  Charles'  fortune.  In  obedience  to 
the  orders  drawn  up  the  night  before  his  departure,  Dumay 
forwarded  this  sum  at  the  beginning  of  1828,  through  the 
house  of  Mongenod  at  New  York,  to  be  placed  to  Monsieur 
Mignon's  credit.  All  this  was  done  with  military  punctuality, 
excepting  with  regard  to  the  retention  of  thirty  thousand 
francs  for  the  personal  needs  of  Madame  and  Mademoiselle 
Mignon.  This,  which  Charles  had  ordered,  Dumay  did  not 
carry  out.  The  Breton  sold  his  house  in  the  town  for  twenty 
thousand  francs,  and  gave  this  to  Madame  Mignon,  reflecting 
that  the  more  money  his  colonel  could  command,  the  sooner 
he  would  return. 

"  For  lack  of  thirty  thousand  francs  a  man  sometimes  is 
lost,"  said  he  to  Latournelle,  who  bought  the  house  at  his 
friend's  price ;  and  there  the  inhabitants  of  the  chalet  could 
always  find  room.  Many  were  the  pleasant  hours  that  Madame 
Mignon,  her  daughter,  Modeste,  and  also  Lieutenant  Dumay 
and  his  ever-watchful  wife,  passed  in  that  hospitable  retreat. 
Butscha's  wit  constantly  entertained  them. 

This,  to  the  famous  house  of  Mignon,  le  Havre,  was  the 
outcome  of  the  crisis  which,  in  1825-26,  upset  the  principal 
centres  of  commerce,  and  caused — if  you  remember  that 
hurricane — the  ruin  of  several  Paris  bankers,  one  of  them  the 
president  of  the  chamber  of  commerce.  It  is  intelligible  that 
this  tremendous  overthrow,  closing  a  civic  reign  of  ten  years, 
might  have  been  a  death-blow  to  Bettina  Wallenrod,  who  once 
more  found  herself  parted  from  her  husband,  knowing  nothing 
of  his  fate,  apparently  as  full  of  peril  and  adventure  as 
Siberian  exile  ;  but  the  trouble  that  was  really  bringing  her  to 
the  grave  was  to  these  visible  griefs  what  an  ill-starred  child 
is  to  the  commonplace  troubles  of  a  family — a  child  that 
gnaws  and  devours  its  home.  The  fatal  stone  that  had  struck 


MODESTE   MIGNON.  27 

this  mother's  heart  was  a  tombstone  in  the  little  cemetery  of 
Ingouville,  on  which  may  be  read  : 

BETTINA  CAROLINE  MIGNON 

AGED  TWO-AND-TWENTY 

PRAY  FOR  HER  ! 

1827. 

This  inscription  is  for  the  girl  who  lies  there  what  many  an 
epitaph  is  for  the  dead — a  table  of  contents  to  an  unknown 
book.  Here  is  the  book  in  its  terrible  epitome,  and  it  may 
explain  the  pledge  demanded  and  given  in  the  parting  words 
of  the  colonel  and  subaltern. 

A  young  man,  extremely  handsome,  named  Georges 
d'Estourny,  came  to  le  Havre  on  the  common  pretext  of 
seeing  the  sea,  and  he  saw  Caroline  Mignon.  A  man  of  some 
pretense  to  fashion,  and  from  Paris,  never  lacks  some  intro- 
ductions ;  he  was  therefore  invited  by  the  intervention  of  a 
friend  of  the  Mignons  to  an  entertainment  at  Ingouville.  He 
fell  very  much  in  love  with  Caroline  and  her  fortune  and 
schemed  for  a  happy  issue.  At  the  end  of  three  months  he 
had  played  every  trick  of  the  seducer,  and  run  away  with 
Caroline.  The  father  of  a  family  who  has  two  daughters 
ought  no  more  to  admit  a  young  man  to  his  house  without 
knowing  him  than  he  should  allow  books  or  newspapers  to  lie 
about  without  having  read  them.  The  innocence  of  a  girl  is 
like  milk  which  is  turned  by  a  thunder-clap,  by  an  evil  smell, 
by  a  hot  day,  or  even  by  a  breath. 

When  he  read  his  eldest  daughter's  farewell  letter,  Charles 
Mignon  made  Madame  Dumay  set  out  instantly  for  Paris. 
The  family  alleged  the  need  for  a  change  of  air  suddenly  pre- 
scribed by  the  family  doctor,  who  lent  himself  to  this  neces- 
sary pretext ;  but  this  could  not  keep  the  town  from  gossiping 
about  her  absence. 


28  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

"  What,  such  a  strong  girl,  with  the  complexion  of  a 
Spaniard,  and  hair  like  jet  !  She,  consumptive  !  " 

"Yes — so  they  say.     She  did  something  imprudent " 

"  Ah,  ha !  "  cried  some  Vilquin. 

"  She  came  in  from  a  ride  bathed  in  perspiration  and  drank 
iced  water,  at  least  so  Dr.  Troussenard  says." 

By  the  time  Madame  Dumay  returned,  the  troubles  of  the 
Mignons  were  an  exhausted  subject ;  no  one  thought  anything 
more  of  Caroline's  absence  or  the  return  of  the  cashier's  wife. 

At  the  beginning  of  1827  the  newspapers  were  full  of  the 
trial  of  Georges  d'Estourny,  who  was  proved  guilty  of  con- 
stant cheating  at  play.  This  young  pirate  vanished  abroad 
without  thinking  anything  more  about  Mademoiselle  Mignon, 
whose  money  value  was  destroyed  by  the  bankruptcy  at  le 
Havre.  Before  long  Caroline  knew  that  she  was  deserted  and 
her  father  a  ruined  man.  She  came  home  in  a  fearful  state  of 
mortal  illness,  and  died  a  few  days  afterward  at  the  chalet. 
Her  death,  at  any  rate,  saved  her  reputation.  The  malady 
spoken  of  by  Monsieur  Mignon  at  the  time  of  his  daughter's 
elopement  was  very  generally  believed  in,  and  the  medical 
orders  which  had  sent  her  off,  it  was  said,  to  Nice. 

To  the  very  last  the  mother  hoped  to  save  her  child. 
Bettina  was  her  darling,  as  Modeste  was  her  father's.  There 
was  something  touching  in  this  preference  :  Bettina  was  the 
image  of  Charles,  as  Modeste  was  of  her  mother.  They  per- 
petuated their  love  in  their  children.  Caroline,  a  Provencal, 
inherited  from  her  father  the  beautiful  blue-black  hair,  like  a 
raven's  wing,  which  we  admire  in  the  daughters  of  the  south, 
the  hazel,  almond-shaped  eye  as  bright  as  a  star,  the  olive 
complexion  with  the  golden  glow  of  a  velvety  fruit,  the  arched 
foot,  the  Spanish  bust  that  swells  beneath  the  bodice.  And 
the  father  and  mother  were  alike  proud  of  the  charming  con- 
trast of  the  two  sisters. 

"  A  demon  and  an  angel  !  "  people  used  to  say,  without  ill 
meaning,  though  it  was  prophetic. 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  29 

After  spending  a  month  in  tears  in  her  room,  where  she  in- 
sisted on  staying  and  seeing  no  one,  the  poor  German  lady 
came  forth  with  her  eyes  seriously  injured.  Before  she  lost  her 
sight  she  went,  in  spite  of  all  her  friends,  to  look  at  Caroline's 
tomb.  This  last  image  remained  bright  in  her  darkness,  as 
the  red  spectre  of  the  last  object  we  have  seen  remains  when 
we  shut  our  eyes  in  bright  daylight.  After  this  terrible  and 
twofold  disaster,  Dumay,  though  he  could  not  be  more  de- 
voted, was  more  anxious  than  ever  about  Modeste,  now  an 
only  child,  though  her  father  knew  it  not.  Madame  Dumay, 
who  was  crazy  about  Modeste,  like  all  women  who  have  no 
children,  overpowered  her  with  her  deputy  motherhood,  but 
without  disobeying  her  husband's  orders.  Dumay  was  dis- 
trustful of  female  friendships.  His  injunctions  were  absolute. 
"  If  ever  any  man,  of  whatever  age  or  rank,  speaks  to 
Modeste,"  said  Dumay,  "  if  he  looks  at  her,  casts  sheep's  eyes 
at  her,  he  is  a  dead  man.  I  will  blow  his  brains  out  and  sur- 
render myself  to  the  public  prosecutor.  My  death  may  save 
her.  If  you  do  not  wish  to  see  me  cut  my  throat,  fill  my  place 
unfailingly  when  I  am  in  town." 

For  three  years  Dumay  had  examined  his  pistols  every 
night.  He  seemed  to  have  included  in  his  oath  the  two 
Pyrenean  dogs,  remarkably  intelligent  beasts ;  one  slept  in 
the  house,  the  other  was  sentinel  in  a  kennel  that  he  never 
came  out  of,  and  he  never  barked ;  but  the  minute  when  those 
dogs  should  set  their  teeth  in  an  intruder  would  be  a  terrible 
one  for  him. 

The  life  may  now  be  imagined  which  the  mother  and 
daughter  led  at  the  chalet.  Monsieur  and  Madame  Latour- 
nelle,  frequently  accompanied  by  Gobenheim,  came  almost 
every  evening  to  visit  their  friends  and  play  a  rubber.  Con- 
versation would  turn  on  business  at  le  Havre,  on  the  trivial 
events  of  country-town  life.  They  left  between  nine  and  ten. 
Modeste  went  to  put  her  mother  to  bed  ;  they  said  their 
prayers  together,  they  talked  over  their  hopes,  they  spoke  of 


30  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

the  dearly  loved  traveler.  After  kissing  her  mother,  Modeste 
went  to  her  own  room  at  about  ten  o'clock.  Next  morning 
Modeste  dressed  her  mother  with  the  same  care,  the  same 
prayers,  the  same  little  chat.  To  Modeste's  honor,  from  the 
day  when  her  mother's  terrible  infirmity  deprived  her  of  one 
of  her  senses,  she  made  herself  her  waiting-maid,  and  always 
with  the  same  solicitude  at  every  hour,  without  wearying  of 
it,  or  finding  it  monotonous.  Her  affection  was  supreme, 
and  always  ready,  with  a  sweetness  rare  in  young  girls,  and 
that  was  highly  appreciated  by  those  who  saw  her  tenderness. 
And  so  Modeste  was,  in  the  eyes  of  the  Latournelles  and  of 
Monsieur  and  Madame  Dumay,  the  jewel  I  have  described. 
Between  breakfast  and  dinner,  on  sunny  days,  Madame  Mig- 
non  and  Madame  Dumay  took  a  little  walk  as  far  as  the  shore, 
Modeste  assisting,  for  the  blind  woman  needed  the  support  of 
two  arms. 

A  month  before  the  scene  in  which  this  digression  falls  as 
a  parenthesis,  Madame  Mignon  had  held  council  with  her 
only  friends,  Madame  Latournelle,  the  notary,  and  Dumay, 
while  Madame  Dumay  was  giving  Modeste  the  little  diversion 
of  a  long  walk. 

"  Listen,  my  friends,"  said  the  blind  woman,  "  my  daughter 
is  in  love.  I  feel  it.  A  strange  change  has  come  over  her, 
and  I  cannot  think  how  you  have  failed  to  observe  it " 

"  Bless  my  stars  !  "  the  lieutenant  exclaimed. 

"  Do  not  interrupt  me,  Dumay.  For  the  last  two  months 
Modeste  has  dressed  herself  with  care  as  if  she  were  going  to 
meet  some  one.  She  has  become  excessively  particular  about 
her  shoes  ;  she  wants  her  foot  to  look  nice,  and  scolds  Mad- 
ame Gobain  the  shoemaker.  Some  days  the  poor  child  sits 
gloomy  and  watchful,  as  if  she  expected  somebody;  her  voice 
is  short  and  sharp,  as  though  by  questioning  her  I  broke  in 
on  her  expectancy,  her  secret  hopes ;  and  then,  if  that  some- 
body has  been " 


MODESTE  M1GNON.  31 

"Bless  my  stars  !  " 

"Sit  down,  Dumay,"  said  the  lady.  "Well,  then  Modeste 
is  gay.  Oh  !  you  do  not  see  that  she  is  gay;  you  cannot 
discern  these  shades,  too  subtle  for  eyes  to  see  that  have  all 
nature  to  look  at.  Her  cheerfulness  betrays  itself  in  the 
tones  of  her  voice,  accents  which  I  can  detect  and  account 
for.  Modeste,  instead  of  sitting  still  and  dreaming,  expends 
her  light  activity  in  flighty  movement.  In  short,  she  is 
happy !  There  is  a  tone  of  thanksgiving  even  in  the  ideas 
she  utters.  Oh,  my  friends,  I  have  learned  to  know  happi- 
ness as  well  as  grief.  By  the  kiss  my  poor  Modeste  gives  me 
I  can  guess  what  is  going  on  in  her  mind  :  whether  she  has 
had  what  she  was  expecting,  or  is  uneasy.  There  are  many 
shades  in  kisses,  even  in  those  of  a  young  girl — for  Modeste 
is  innocence  itself,  but  it  is  not  ignorant  innocence.  Though 
I  am  blind,  my  affection  is  clairvoyante,  and  I  implore  you — 
watch  my  daughter." 

On  this,  Dumay,  quite  ferocious ;  the  notary  as  a  man  who 
is  bent  on  solving  a  riddle ;  Madame  Latournelle  as  a  duenna 
who  has  been  cheated ;  and  Madame  Dumay,  who  shared  her 
husband's  fears — all  constituted  themselves  spies  over  Mod- 
este. Modeste  was  never  alone  for  a  moment.  Dumay 
spent  whole  nights  under  the  windows,  wrapped  in  a  cloak 
like  a  jealous  Spaniard  ;  still,  armed  as  he  was  with  military 
sagacity,  he  could  find  no  accusing  clue.  Unless  she  were  in 
love  with  the  nightingales  in  Vilquin's  park,  or  some  goblin 
prince,  Modeste  could  have  seen  no  one,  could  neither  have 
received  nor  given  a  signal.  Madame  Dumay,  who  never 
went  to  bed  till  she  had  seen  Modeste  asleep,  hovered  about 
the  roads  on  the  high  ground  near  the  chalet  with  a  vigilance 
equal  to  her  husband's.  Under  the  eyes  of  these  four  Arguses, 
the  blameless  child,  whose  smallest  actions  were  reported  and 
analyzed,  was  so  absolutely  acquitted  of  any  criminal  proceed- 
ings, that  the  friends  suspected  Madame  Mignon  of  a  craze, 
a  monomania.  It  devolved  on  Madame  Latournelle,  who 


32  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

herself  took  Modeste  to  church  and  home  again,  to  tell  the 
mother  that  she  was  under  a  mistake. 

"  Modeste,"  said  she,  "  is  a  very  enthusiastic  young  person; 
she  has  passions  for  this  one's  poetry  and  that  one's  prose. 
You  could  not  see  what  an  impression  was  made  on  her  by 
that  executioner's  piece  (a  phrase  of  Butscha's,  who  lent  wit 
without  any  return  to  his  benefactress),  called  '  Le  Dernier 
Jour  d'un  condamne '  (The  Condemned's  Last  Day) ;  but 
she  seemed  to  me  beside  herself  with  her  admiration  of  that 
Monsieur  Hugo.  I  cannot  think  where  that  sort  of  people 
(Victor  Hugo,  Lamartine,  and  Byron  were  what  Madame 
Latournelle  meant  by  that  sorf)  go  to  find  their  ideas.  The 
little  thing  talked  to  me  about  '  Childe  Harold ; '  I  did  not 
choose  to  have  the  worst  of  it ;  I  was  fool  enough  to  set  to 
work  to  read  it  that  I  might  be  able  to  argue  with  her.  I 
don't  know  whether  it  is  to  be  set  down  to  the  translation, 
but  my  heart  heaved,  my  eyes  were  dizzy.  I  could  not  get 
on  with  it.  It  is  full  of  howling  comparisons,  of  rocks  that 
faint  away,  of  the  lava  of  war  ! 

"  Of  course,  as  it  is  an  Englishman  on  his  travels,  one 
must  expect  something  queer,  but  this  is  really  too  much  ! 
You  fancy  you  are  in  Spain,  and  he  carries  you  up  into  the 
clouds  above  the  Alps ;  he  makes  the  torrents  and  the  stars 
speak ;  and  then  there  are  too  many  virgins  !  You  get  sick 
of  them.  In  short,  after  Napoleon's  campaigns  we  have  had 
enough  of  flaming  shot  and  sounding  brass  which  roll  on 
from  page  to  page.  Modeste  tells  me  that  all  this  pathos 
comes  from  the  translator,  and  I  ought  to  read  the  English. 
But  I  am  not  going  to  learn  English  for  Lord  Byron  when  I 
would  not  learn  it  for  Exupere  !  I  much  prefer  the  romances 
of  Ducray-Dumenil  to  these  English  romances  !  I  am  too 
thoroughly  Norman  to  fall  in  love  with  everything  that  comes 
from  abroad,  and  especially  from  England " 

Madame  Mignon,  notwithstanding  her  perpetual  mourning, 
could  not  help  smiling  at  the  idea  of  Madame  Latournelle 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  33 

reading  "  Childe  Harold."  The  stern  lady  accepted  this 
smile  as  approbation  of  her  doctrines. 

"  And  so,  my  dear  Madame  Mignon,  you  mistake  Modeste's 
imaginings,  the  result  of  her  reading,  for  love  affairs.  She  is 
twenty.  At  that  age  a  girl  loves  herself.  She  dresses  to  see 
herself  dressed.  Why,  I  used  to  make  my  little  sister,  who  is 
dead  now,  put  on  a  man's  hat,  and  we  played  at  gentleman 

and  lady You,  at  Frankfort,  had  a  happy  girlhood,  but 

let  us  be  just :  Modeste  here  has  no  amusements.  In  spite  of 
our  readiness  to  meet  her  lightest  wishes,  she  knows  that  she 
is  guarded,  and  the  life  she  leads  has  little  pleasure  to  offer  a 
girl  who  could  not,  as  she  can,  find  something  to  divert  her 
in  books.  Take  my  word  for  it,  she  loves  no  one  but  you. 
Think  yourself  lucky  that  she  falls  in  love  with  nobody  but 
Lord  Byron's  corsairs,  Walter  Scott's  romantic  heroes,  or 
your  Germans,  Count  Egmont,  Werther,  Schiller,  and  all  the 
other  ers." 

"Well,  madame?"  said  Dumay  respectfully,  alarmed  by 
Madame  Mignon's  silence. 

"  Modeste  is  not  merely  ready  for  love ;  she  loves  some- 
body," said  the  mother  obstinately. 

"  Madame,  my  life  is  at  stake,  and  you  will  no  doubt  allow 
me — not  for  my  own  sake,  but  for  my  poor  wife's  and  for  the 
colonel's,  and  all  our  sakes — to  try  to  find  out  which  is  mis- 
taken— the  watch-dog  or  the  mother." 

"  It  is  you,  Dumay  !  Oh,  if  I  could  but  look  my  daughter 
in  the  face !  "  sobbed  the  poor  blind  woman. 

"  But  who  is  there  that  she  can  love?"  replied  Madame 
Latournelle.  "As  for  us — I  can  answer  for  my  Exupere." 

"  It  cannot  be  Gobenheim,  whom  we  hardly  see  for  nine 
hours  out  of  the  week  since  the  colonel  went  away.  Besides, 
he  is  not  thinking  of  Modeste — that  crown-piece  made  man  ! 
His  uncle,  Gobenheim-Keller,  told  him,  '  Get  rich  enough  to 
marry  a  Keller  ! '  With  that  for  a  programme,  there  is  no 
fear  that  he  will  even  know  of  what  sex  Modeste  is.  Those 
3 


34  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

are  all  the  men  we  see  here.  I  do  not  count  Butscha,  poor 
little  hunchback.  I  love  him  ;  he  is  your  Dumay,  madame," 
he  said  to  the  notary's  wife.  "  Butscha  knows  very  well  that 
if  he  glanced  at  Modeste  it  would  cost  him  a  combing  a  la 
mode  de  Vannes.  Not  a  soul  ever  comes  near  us.  Madame 
Latournelle,  who  since — since  your  misfortune,  comes  to  take 
Modeste  to  church  and  bring  her  home  again,  has  watched 
her  carefully  these  last  days  during  the  mass,  and  has  seen 
nothing  suspicious  about  her.  And  then,  if  I  must  tell  you 
everything,  I  myself  have  raked  the  paths  round  the  house  for 
the  last  month,  and  I  have  always  found  them  in  the  morning 
with  no  footmarks." 

"Rakes  are  not  costly  nor  difficult  to  use,"  said  the  Ger- 
man lady. 

"And  the  dogs?"  asked  Dumay. 

"  Lovers  can  find  sops  for  them,"  replied  Madame  Mignon. 

"I  could  blow  out  my  own  brains  if  you  are  right,  for  I 
should  be  done  for,"  cried  Dumay. 

"And  why,  Dumay?" 

"  Madame,  I  could  not  meet  the  colonel's  eye  if  he  were 
not  to  find  his  daughter,  especially  now  that  she  is  his  only 
child ;  and  as  pure,  as  virtuous  as  she  was  when  he  said  to  me 
on  board  the  ship,  '  Do  not  let  the  fear  of  the  scaffold,  stop 
you,  Dumay,  when  Modeste's  honor  is  at  stake.'  ' 

"  I  know  you  both — how  like  you  !  "  murmured  Madame 
Mignon,  much  moved. 

"  I  will  wager  my  eternal  salvation  that  Modeste  is  as  inno- 
cent as  she  was  in  her  cradle,"  quoth  Madame  Dumay. 

"Oh,  I  will  know  all  about  it,"  replied  Dumay,  "if 
Madame  la  Comtesse  will  allow  me  to  try  a  plan,  for  old  sol- 
diers are  knowing  in  stratagems." 

"  I  allow  you  to  do  anything  that  may  clear  up  the  matter 
without  injuring  our  last  surviving  child." 

"And  what  will  you  do,  Anne,"  asked  his  wife,  "to  find 
out  a  young  girl's  secret  when  it  is  so  closely  kept?  " 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  35 

"  All  of  you  obey  me  exactly,"  returned  the  lieutenant,  "  for 
you  must  all  help." 

This  brief  account,  which,  if  elaborately  worked  up,  would 
have  furnished  forth  a  complete  picture  of  domestic  life — 
how  many  families  will  recognize  in  it  the  events  of  their  own 
home ! — is  enough  to  give  a  clue  to  the  importance  of  the 
little  details  previously  given  of  the  persons  and  circumstances 
of  this  evening,  when  the  lieutenant  had  undertaken  to  cope 
with  a  young  girl,  and  to  drag  from  the  recesses  of  her  heart 
a  passion  detected  by  her  blind  mother. 

An  hour  went  by  in  ominous  calm,  broken  only  by  the 
hieroglyphical  phrases  of  the  whist-players :  "  Spade  !  Trump  ! 
Cut !  Have  we  the  honors  ?  Two  trebles  !  Eight  all !  Who 
deals?" — phrases  representing  in  these  days  the  great  emo- 
tions of  the  aristocracy  of  Europe.  Modeste  stitched,  without 
any  surprise  at  her  mother's  taciturnity.  Madame  Mignon's 
pocket-handkerchief  slipped  off  her  lap  on  to  the  floor;  Butscha 
flew  to  pick  it  up.  He  was  close  to  Modeste,  and  as  he  rose 
whispered  in  her  ear,  "Be  on  your  guard  !  " 

Modeste  raised  astonished  eyes,  and  their  light,  pointed 
darts  as  it  seemed,  filled  the  hunchback  with  ineffable  joy. 

"She  loves  no  one,"  said  the  poor  fellow  to  himself,  and 
he  rubbed  his  hands  hard  enough  to  flay  them. 

At  this  moment  Exupere  flew  through  the  garden  and  into 
the  house,  rushing  into  the  drawing-room  like  a  whirlwind, 
and  said  in  Dumay's  ear,  "  Here  is  the  young  man  !  " 

Dumay  rose,  seized  his  pistols,  and  went  out. 

"Good  God!  Supposing  he  kills  him!"  cried  Madame 
Dumay,  who  burst  into  tears. 

"But  what  is  going  on?"  asked  Modeste,  looking  at  her 
friends  with  an  air  of  perfect  candor,  and  without  any  alarm. 

"Something  about  a  young  man  who  prowls  round  the 
chalet !  "  cried  Madame  Latournelle. 


36  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

"  What  then  ?  "  said  Modeste.  "  Why  should  Dumay  kill 
him?" 

"  Sancta  simplicitas  !  "  said  Butscha,  looking  at  his  master 
as  proudly  as  Alexander  gazes  at  Babylon  in  Lebrun's  picture. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Modeste?"  asked  her  mother,  as 
her  daughter  was  leaving  the  room. 

"  To  get  everything  ready  for  you  to  go  to  bed,  mamma," 
replied  Modeste,  in  a  voice  as  clear  as  the  notes  of  a  har- 
monica. 

"  You  have  had  all  your  trouble  for  nothing,"  said  Butscha 
to  Dumay  when  he  came  in. 

"  Modeste  is  as  saintly  as  the  Virgin  on  our  altar  !  "  cried 
Madame  Latournelle. 

"Ah,  good  heavens  !  Such  agitation  is  too  much  for  me," 
said  the  cashier.  "And  yet  I  am  a  strong  man." 

"I  would  give  twenty-five  sous  to  understand  one  word  of 
what  you  are  at  this  evening,"  said  Gobenheim ;  "you  all 
seem  to  me  to  have  gone  mad. ' ' 

"  And  yet  a  treasure  is  at  stake,"  said  Butscha,  standing  on 
tiptoe  to  speak  into  Gobenheim's  ear. 

"  Unfortunately,  I  am  almost  positive  of  the  truth  of  what 
I  say,"  repeated  the  mother. 

"  Then  it  now  lies  with  you,  madame,"  said  Dumay  quietly, 
"  to  prove  that  we  are  wrong." 

When  he  found  that  nothing  was  involved  but  Modeste's 
reputation,  Gobenheim  took  his  hat,  bowed,  and  went  away, 
carrying  off  ten  sous,  regarding  a  fresh  rubber  as  hopeless. 

"Exupere,  and  you  Butscha,  leave  us,"  said  Madame 
Latournelle.  "  Go  down  to  the  town.  You  will  be  in  time  to 
see  one  piece;  I  will  treat  you  to  the  play." 

As  soon  as  Madame  Mignon  was  left  with  her  four  friends, 
Madame  Latournelle  glanced  at  Dumay,  who,  being  a  Breton, 
understood  the  mother's  persistency,  and  then  at  her  husband 
fidgeting  with  the  cards,  and  thought  herself  justified  in 
speaking. 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  37 

"Come,  Madame  Mignon,  tell  us  what  decisive  evidence 
has  struck  your  ear?" 

"  Oh,  my  dear  friend,  if  you  were  a  musician,  you,  like  me, 
would  have  heard  Modeste's  tone  when  she  sings  of  love." 

The  piano  belonging  to  the  two  sisters  was  one  of  the  few 
feminine  luxuries  among  the  furniture  brought  from  the  town- 
house  to  the  chalet.  Modeste  had  mitigated  some  tedium  by 
studying  without  a  master.  She  was  a  born  musician,  and 
often  played  to  cheer  her  mother.  She  sang  with  natural  grace 
the  German  airs  her  mother  taught  her.  From  this  instruction 
and  this  endeavor  had  resulted  the  phenomenon,  not  uncom- 
mon in  natures  prompted  by  a  vocation,  that  Modeste  uncon- 
sciously composed  purely  melodic  strains,  as  such  composition 
is  possible  without  a  knowledge  of  harmony.  Melody  is  to 
music  what  imagery  and  feeling  are  to  poetry,  a  flower  that 
may  blossom  spontaneously.  All  nations  have  had  popular 
melodies  before  the  introduction  of  harmony.  Botany  came 
after  flowers.  Thus  Modeste,  without  having  learned  anything 
of  the  technique  of  painting  beyond  what  she  had  gathered 
from  seeing  her  sister  work  in  water-colors,  could  stand  en- 
chanted before  a  picture  by  Raphael,  Titian,  Rubens,  Murillo, 
Rembrandt,  Albert  Diirer,  or  Holbein ;  that  is  to  say,  the 
highest  ideal  of  each  nation.  Now,  for  about  a  month, 
Modeste  had  more  especially  burst  into  nightingale  songs, 
into  new  strains  so  poetical  as  to  arouse  her  mother's  atten- 
tion, surprised  as  she  was  to  find  Modeste  bent  on  composi- 
tion and  trying  airs  to  unfamiliar  words. 

"If  your  suspicions  have  no  other  foundation,"  said  La- 
tournelle  to  Madame  Mignon,  "I  pity  your  sensitiveness." 

"When  a  young  girl  sings  in  Brittany,"  said  Dumay,  now 
grave  again,  "the  lover  is  very  near." 

"I  will  let  you  overhear  Modeste  improvising,"  said  the 
mother,  "  and  you  will  see  ! " 

"  Poor  child  !  "  said  Madame  Dumay.  "  If  she  could  but 
know  of  our  anxiety,  she  would  be  in  despair ;  and  she  would 


38  MODESTE   MIGNON. 

tell  us  the  truth,  especially  if  she  knew  all  it  meant  to 
Dumay." 

"To-morrow,  my  friends,  I  will  question  Modeste,"  said 
Madame  Mignon ;  "and  perhaps  I  shall  achieve  more  by  affec- 
tion than  you  have  gained  by  ruse." 

Was  the  comedy  of  the  "  Ill-guarded  Daughter  "  being  en- 
acted here,  as  it  is  everywhere  and  at  all  times,  while  these 
worthy  Bartolos,  these  spies,  these  vigilant  watch-dogs  failed 
to  scent,  to  guess,  to  detect  the  lover,  the  conspiracy,  the 
smoke  of  the  fire  ? 

This  was  not  the  consequence  of  any  defiance  between  a 
prisoner  and  her  gaolers,  between  the  tyranny  of  the  dungeon 
and  the  liberty  of  the  captive,  but  merely  the  eternal  repeti- 
tion of  the  first  drama  played  as  the  curtain  rose  on  the  new 
creation  :  Eve  in  Paradise.  Which,  in  this  case,  was  right — 
the  mother  or  the  watch-dog  ? 

None  of  the  persons  about  Modeste  understood  the  girl's 
heart — for,  be  assured,  the  soul  and  the  face  were  in 
unison.  Modeste  had  transplanted  her  life  into  a  world  of 
which  the  existence  is  as  completely  denied  in  our  days  as  the 
New  World  of  Christopher  Columbus  was  denied  in  the  six- 
teenth century.  Fortunately,  she  could  be  silent,  or  she 
would  have  been  thought  mad. 

We  must  first  explain  the  influence  that  past  events  had  had 
on  the  girl.  Two  especially  had  formed  her  character,  as 
they  had  awakened  her  intelligence.  Monsieur  and  Madame 
Mignon,  startled  by  the  disaster  that  had  come  upon  Bettina, 
had,  before  their  bankruptcy,  resolved  on  seeing  Modeste 
married,  and  their  choice  fell  on  the  son  of  a  wealthy  banker, 
a  native  of  Hamburg,  who  had  settled  at  le  Havre  in  1815, 
and  who  was  under  some  obligations  to  them.  This  young 
man — Francisque  Althor — the  dandy  of  le  Havre,  handsome 
in  the  style  which  captivates  the  Philistine,  what  the  English 
call  a  heavy-weight — florid,  healthy  coloring,  firm  flesh,  and 
square  shoulders — threw  over  his  bride-elect,  at  the  news  of 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  39 

their  disaster,  so  completely  that  he  had  never  since  set  eyes 
on  Modeste,  or  on  Madame  Mignon,  or  on  the  Dumays. 
Latournelle  having  made  so  bold  as  to  speak  to  the  father, 
Jacob  Althor,  on  the  subject,  the  old  German  had  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  and  replied,  "  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean." 

This  reply,  repeated  to  Modeste  to  give  her  experience, 
was  a  lesson  she  understood  all  the  better  because  Latournelle 
and  Dumay  made  voluminous  comments  on  this  base  deser- 
tion. Charles  Mignon's  two  daughters,  spoiled  children  as 
they  were,  rode,  had  their  own  horses  and  servants,  and  en- 
joyed fatal  liberty.  Modeste,  finding  herself  in  command  of 
a  recognized  lover,  had  allowed  Francisque  to  kiss  her  hand, 
and  put  his  arm  round  her  to  help  her  to  mount ;  she  had 
accepted  flowers  and  the  trifling  gifts  of  affection  which  are 
the  burden  of  paying  court  to  a  young  lady ;  she  worked  him 
a  purse,  believing  in  bonds  of  that  kind,  so  strong  to  noble 
souls,  but  mere  cobwebs  to  the  Gobenheims,  Vilquins,  and 
Althors. 

In  the  course  of  the  spring,  after  Madame  Mignon  and  her 
daughter  had  moved  into  the  chalet,  Francisque  Althor  went 
to  dine  with  the  Vilquins.  On  catching  sight  of  Modeste 
beyond  the  wall  of  the  lawn,  he  looked  away.  Six  weeks 
after,  he  married  Mademoiselle  Vilquin — the  eldest.  Thus 
Modeste  learned  that  she,  handsome,  young,  and  well  born, 
had  for  three  months  been  simply  Mademoiselle  Million.  So 
Modeste's  poverty,  which  was  of  course  known,  was  a  sentinel 
which  guarded  the  ways  to  the  chalet  quite  as  well  as  the  Du- 
mays' prudence  and  the  Latournelles'  vigilance.  Mademoiselle 
Mignon  was  never  mentioned  but  with  insulting  pity:  "Poor 
girl !  what  will  become  of  her?  She  will  die  an  old  maid." 
"  What  a  hard  lot  !  After  seeing  all  the  world  at  her  feet, 
and  having  a  chance  of  marrying  Althor,  to  find  that  no  one 
will  have  anything  to  say  to  her?  "  "  Such  a  life  of  luxury, 
my  dear  !  and  to  have  sunk  to  penury  !  " 

Nor  were  these  insults  spoken  in  private  and  only  guessed 


40  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

by  Modeste ;  more  than  once  she  heard  them  uttered  by  the 
young  men  and  girls  of  the  town  when  walking  at  Ingouville, 
who,  knowing  that  Madame  and  Mademoiselle  Mignon  lived 
at  the  chalet,  discussed  them  audibly  as  they  went  past  the 
pretty  little  house.  Some  of  the  Vilquins'  friends  wondered 
that  these  ladies  could  bear  to  live  so  near  the  home  of  their 
former  splendor.  Modeste,  sitting  behind  closed  shutters, 
often  heard  such  impertinence  as  this  :  "I  cannot  think  how 
they  can  live  there!"  one  would  say  to  another,  walking 
round  the  garden,  perhaps  to  help  the  Vilquins  to  be  rid  of 
their  tenants.  "What  do  they  live  on?  What  can  they  do 
there  ?  The  old  woman  is  gone  blind !  Is  Mademoiselle 
Mignon  still  pretty?  Ah,  she  has  no  horses  now.  How 
dashing  she  used  to  be  !  " 

As  she  heard  this  savage  nonsense  spoken  by  envy,  foul- 
mouthed  and  surly,  and  tilting  at  the  past,  many  girls  would 
have  felt  the  blood  rise  to  their  very  brow;  others  would 
have  wept ;  some  would  have  felt  a  surge  of  rage  ;  but  Modeste 
smiled  as  we  smile  at  a  theatre,  hearing  actors  speak.  Her 
pride  could  not  descend  to  the  level  which  such  words,  rising 
from  below,  could  reach. 

The  other  event  was  even  more  serious  than  this  mercenary 
desertion.  Bettina  Caroline  had  died  in  her  sister's  arms; 
Modeste  had  nursed  her  with  the  devotion  of  a  woman,  with 
the  inquisitiveness  of  a  maiden  imagination.  The  two  girls, 
in  the  watches  of  the  night,  had  exchanged  many  a  con- 
fidence. What  dramatic  interest  hung  around  Bettina  in  the 
eyes  of  her  innocent  sister !  Bettina  knew  passion  only  as 
misfortune ;  she  was  dying  because  she  had  loved.  Between 
two  girls  every  man,  wretch  though  he  be,  is  a  lover.  Passion 
is  the  one  thing  really  absolute  in  human  life ;  it  will  always 
have  its  own.  Georges  d'Estourny,  a  gambler,  dissipated 
and  guilty,  always  dwelt  in  the  memory  of  these  two  young 
things  as  the  Parisian  dandy  of  the  Havre  parties,  the  cyno- 
sure of  every  woman — Bettina  believed  that  she  had  snatched 


MODESTE   MIGNON.  41 

him  from  Madame  Vilquin's  flirtations — and,  to  crown  all, 
Bettina's  successful  lover.  In  a  young  girl  her  worship  is 
stronger  than  social  reprobation.  In  Bettina's  mind,  justice 
had  erred  ;  how  should  she  have  condemned  a  young  man  by 
whom  she  had  been  loved  for  six  months,  loved  with  passion 
in  the  mysterious  retreat  where  Georges  hid  her  in  Paris,  that 
he  might  preserve  his  liberty.  Thus  Bettina,  in  her  death, 
had  inoculated  her  sister  with  love. 

The  sisters  had  often  discussed  the  great  drama  of  passion, 
to  which  imagination  lends  added  importance  ;  and  the  dead 
girl  had  taken  Modeste's  purity  with  her  to  her  grave,  leaving 
her  not  perhaps  all-knowing,  but,  at  any  rate,  all-curious.  At 
the  same  time,  remorse  had  often  set  sharp  pangs  in  Bettina's 
heart,  and  she  lavished  warnings  on  her  sister.  In  the  midst 
of  her  revelations,  she  never  failed  to  preach  obedience  in 
Modeste,  absolute  obedience  to  her  family.  On  the  eve  of 
her  death,  she  implored  her  sister  to  remember  the  pillow  she 
had  soaked  with  her  tears,  and  never  to  imitate  the  conduct 
her  sufferings  could  scarcely  expiate.  Bettina  accused  herself 
of  having  brought  the  lightning  down  on  those  dear  to  her ; 
she  died  in  despair  at  not  receiving  her  father's  forgiveness. 
In  spite  of  the  consolations  of  religion,  which  was  softened 
by  such  deep  repentance,  Bettina's  last  words,  in  a  heart- 
rending cry,  were,  "  Father  !  Father  !  " 

"  Never  give  your  heart  but  with  your  hand,"  said  she  to 
Modeste,  an  hour  before  her  death  ;  "and,  above  all,  accept 
no  attentions  without  my  mother's  consent  or  papa's." 

These  words,  touching  in  their  simple  truth  and  spoken  in 
the  hour  of  death,  found  an  echo  in  Modeste's  mind,  all  the 
more  because  Bettina  made  her  take  a  solemn  vow.  The 
poor  girl,  with  prophetic  insight,  drew  from  under  her  pillow 
a  ring  on  which  she  had  had  engraved  Pensc  a  Bettina,  1827 
— "  Remember  Bettina  " — instead  of  a  motto,  sending  it  by 
the  hand  of  her  faithful  servant  Franchise  Cochet,  to  be  done 
in  the  town.  A  few  minutes  before  she  breathed  her  last 


42  MODESTE   MIGNON, 

sigh,  she  placed  this  ring  on  her  sister's  finger,  begging  her 
to  wear  it  till  she  should  be  married.  Thus,  between  these 
two  girls  there  had  been  a  strange  succession  of  acute  remorse 
and  artless  descriptions  of  that  brief  summer  which  had  been 
so  soon  followed  by  the  autumn  winds  of  desertion,  while 
tears,  regrets,  and  memories  were  constantly  overruled  by  a 
dread  of  evil. 

And  yet  this  drama  of  the  young  creature  seduced,  and  re- 
turning to  die  of  a  dreadful  disorder  under  the  roof  of  elegant 
poverty,  the  meanness  of  the  Vilquins'  son-in-law,  and  her 
mother's  blindness,  resulting  from  her  griefs,  only  account 
for  the  surface  of  Modeste's  character,  with  which  the  Dumays 
and  the  Latournelles  had  to  be  content,  for  no  devotion  can 
fill  the  mother's  place.  This  monotonous  life  in  the  pretty 
chalet,  among  the  beautiful  flowers  grown  by  Dumay ;  these 
habits,  as  regular  as  the  working  of  a  clock ;  this  provincial 
propriety ;  these  rubbers  at  cards  by  which  she  sat  knitting  ; 
this  silence,  only  broken  by  the  moaning  of  the  sea  at  the 
equinoxes ;  this  monastic  peace  covered  the  stormiest  kind  of 
life — the  life  of  ideas,  the  life  of  the  spiritual  world. 

We  sometimes  wonder  at  the  lapses  of  young  girls,  but  that 
is  when  they  have  no  blind  mother  to  sound  with  her  stick 
the  depths  of  the  maiden  heart  undermined  by  the  caverns 
of  fancy. 

The  Dumays  were  asleep  when  Modeste  opened  her  window, 
imagining  that  a  man  might  pass  by — the  man  of  her  dreams, 
the  knight  who  would  take  her  on  a  pillion,  defying  Dumay's 
pistols.  In  her  dejection  after  her  sister's  death,  Modeste  had 
plunged  into  such  constant  reading  as  was  enough  to  make 
her  idiotic.  Having  been  brought  up  to  speak  two  languages, 
she  was  mistress  of  German  as  well  as  of  French ;  then  she 
and  Caroline  had  learned  English  of  Madame  Dumay.  Mod- 
este, who,  in  such  matters,  found  little  supervision  from  her 
uncultivated  companions,  fed  her  soul  on  the  masterpieces  of 
modern  English,  German,  and  French  literature — Lord  Byron, 


MODESTE   MIGNON.  43 

Goethe,  Schiller,  Walter  Scott,  Hugo,  Lamartine,  Crabbe, 
Moore,  the  great  works  of  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth 
centuries,  history  and  the  theatre,  romance  from  Rabelais  to 
Manon  Lescaut,  from  Montaigne's  "Essays"  to  Diderot, 
from  the  "  Fabliaux  "  to  "  La  Nouvelle  Heloise,"  the  thoughts 
of  three  countries  furnished  her  brain  with  a  medley  of  im- 
ages. And  her  mind  was  beautiful  in  its  cold  guilelessness, 
its  repressed  virginal  instincts,  from  which  sprang  forth,  flash- 
ing, armed,  sincere,  and  powerful,  an  intense  admiration  for 
genius.  To  Modeste,  a  new  book  was  a  great  event ;  she  was 
so  happy  over  a  great  work  as  to  alarm  Madame  Latournelle, 
as  we  have  seen,  and  saddened  when  it  failed  to  take  her 
heart  by  storm. 

But  no  gleam  of  this  lurid  flame  ever  appeared  on  the 
surface ;  it  escaped  the  eye  of  Lieutenant  Dumay  and  his  wife 
as  well  as  of  the  Latournelles ;  but  the  ear  of  the  blind  mother 
could  not  fail  to  hear  its  crackling.  The  deep  contempt 
which  Modeste  thenceforth  conceived  for  all  ordinary  men 
soon  gave  her  countenance  an  indescribably  proud  and  shy 
expression  which  qualified  its  German  simplicity,  but  which 
agrees  with  one  detail  of  her  face ;  her  hair,  growing  in  a 
point  in  the  middle  of  her  forehead,  seems  to  continue  the 
slight  furrow  made  by  thought  between  her  brows,  and  makes 
this  shy  look  perhaps  a  little  too  wild. 

This  sweet  girl's  voice — before  his  departure  Charles 
Mignon  used  to  call  her  his  little  "Solomon's  slipper,"  she 
was  so  clever — had  acquired  delightful  flexibility  of  accent 
from  her  study  of  three  languages.  This  advantage  is  yet 
further  enhanced  by  a  suave  fresh  quality  which  goes  to  the 
heart  as  well  as  to  the  ear.  Though  her  mother  could  not  see 
the  hope  of  high  destiny  stamped  on  her  daughter's  brow,  she 
could  study  the  changes  of  her  soul's  development  in  the  tones 
of  that  amorous  voice. 

After  this  period  of  ravenous  reading,  there  came  to  Mo- 
deste a  phase  of  the  singular  faculty  possessed  by  a  lively 


44  MODESTE  MIGNO2T. 

imagination  ;  of  living  as  an  actor  in  an  existence  pictured 
as  in  a  dream ;  of  representing  things  wished  for  with  a  vivid- 
ness so  keen  that  it  verges  on  reality ;  of  enjoying  them  in 
fancy,  of  devouring  time  even,  seeing  herself  married,  grown 
old,  attending  her  own  funeral,  like  Charles  V. — in  short, 
of  playing  out  the  drama  of  life,  and  at  need  that  of  death  too. 

As  for  Modeste,  she  played  the  drama  of  love.  She  im- 
agined herself  adored  to  the  height  of  her  wishes,  and  passing 
through  every  social  phase.  As  the  heroine  of  some  dark 
romance,  she  loved  either  the  executioner  or  some  villain  who 
died  on  the  scaffold,  or  else,  like  her  sister,  some  penniless 
fop,  whose  misdemeanors  were  the  affair  of  the  police  court. 
She  pictured  herself  as  a  courtesan,  and  laughed  men  to  scorn 
in  the  midst  of  perpetual  festivities,  like  Ninon.  By  turns, 
she  led  the  life  of  an  adventuress  or  of  a  popular  actress,  go- 
ing through  the  vicissitudes  of  a  Gil  Bias  or  the  triumphs  of 
Pasta,  Malibran,  Florine.  Satiated  with  horrors,  she  would 
come  back  to  real  life.  She  married  a  notary,  she  ate  the 
dry  bread  of  respectability,  she  saw  herself  in  Madame  La- 
tournelle.  She  accepted  a  laborious  life,  facing  the  worries 
of  accumulating  a  fortune ;  then  she  began  to  romance  again  : 
she  was  loved  for  her  beauty ;  the  son  of  a  peer  of  France, 
artistic  and  eccentric,  read  her  heart,  and  discerned  the  star 
which  the  genius  of  a  Stael  had  set  on  her  brow.  At  last  her 
father  returned  a  millionaire.  Justified  by  experience,  she 
subjected  her  lovers  to  tests,  preserving  her  own  freedom  ; 
she  owned  a  splendid  chateau,  servants'  carriages,  everything 
that  luxury  has  most  curious  to  bestow ;  and  she  mystified  her 
lovers  till  she  was  forty,  when  she  accepted  an  offer. 

This  edition  of  the  "Arabian  Nights,"  of  which  there  was 
but  one  copy,  lasted  nearly  a  year,  and  brought  Modeste  to 
satiety  of  invention.  She  too  often  held  life  in  the  hollow 
of  her  hand  ;  she  could  say  to  herself  very  philosophically, 
and  too  seriously,  too  bitterly,  too  often,  "Well;  and  then?" 
not  to  sink  now  to  her  waist  in  those  depths  of  disgust,  into 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  45 

which  men  of  genius  fall  who  are  too  eager  to  escape  by  the 
vast  labor  of  the  task  to  which  they  have  devoted  themselves. 
But  for  her  rich  nature  and  her  youth,  Modeste  would  have 
retired  to  a  cloister.  This  satiety  flung  the  girl,  still  soaked 
in  Catholic  feeling,  into  a  love  of  goodness  and  of  the  infini- 
tude of  heaven.  She  conceived  of  charity  as  the  occupation 
of  her  life ;  still  she  groped  in  forlorn  gloom  as  she  found 
there  no  aliment  for  the  fancy  that  gnawed  at  her  heart  like  a 
malignant  insect  in  the  cup  of  a  flower.  She  calmly  sewed 
on  baby  clothes  for  poor  women  ;  and  she  listened  absently 
to  Monsieur  Latournelle  grumbling  at  Monsieur  Dumay  for 
trumping  a  thirteenth,  or  forcing  him  to  play  his  last  trump. 
Faith  led  Modeste  into  a  strange  path.  She  fancied  that  by 
becoming  irreproachable  in  the  Catholic  sense,  she  might 
achieve  such  a  pitch  of  sanctity  that  God  would  hear  her  and 
grant  her  desires. 

"  'Faith,'  as  Jesus  Christ  says,  'can  remove  mountains;' 
the  Saviour  made  His  apostle  walk  on  the  Lake  of  Tiberias, 
while  I  only  ask  of  God  to  send  me  a  husband,"  thought  she. 
"  That  is  much  easier  than  going  for  a  walk  on  the  sea." 

She  fasted  all  through  Lent,  and  did  not  commit  the  smallest 
sin  ;  then  she  promised  herself  that  on  coming  out  of  church 
on  a  certain  day  she  would  meet  a  handsome  young  man, 
worthy  of  her,  whom  her  mother  would  approve,  and  who 
would  follow  her,  madly  in  love.  On  the  day  she  had  fixed 
for  God  to  send  her  this  angel  without  fail,  she  was  persist- 
ently followed  by  a  horrible  beggar  ;  it  poured  with  rain ; 
and  there  was  not  one  young  man  out  of  doors.  She  went 
down  to  the  quay  to  see  the  English  come  on  shore,  but  every 
Englishman  had  an  English  damsel  almost  as  handsome  as 
herself,  and  Modeste  could  not  see  anything  like  a  "  Childe 
Harold  "  who  had  lost  his  way.  At  that  stage  tears  rose  to  her 
eyes  as  she  sat,  like  Marius,  on  the  ruins  of  her  imaginings. 
One  day  when  she  made  an  appointment  with  God  for  the 
third  time,  she  believed  that  the  elect  of  her  dreams  had  come 


46  MODESTE   MIGNON. 

into  the  church,  and  she  dragged  Madame  Latournelle  to 
look  behind  every  pillar,  imagining  that  he  was  hiding  out 
of  delicacy.  Thenceforth  she  concluded  that  God  had  no 
power.  She  often  made  conversations  with  this  imaginary 
lover,  inventing  question  and  answer,  and  giving  him  a  very 
pretty  wit. 

Thus  it  was  her  heart's  excessive  ambition,  buried  in  ro- 
mance, which  gave  Modeste  the  discretion  so  much  admired 
by  the  good  people  who  watched  over  her ;  they  might  have 
brought  her  many  a  Francisque  Althor  or  Vilquin  fils,  she 
would  not  have  stooped  to  such  boors.  She  required  simply 
and  purely  a  man  of  genius ;  talent  she  thought  little  of,  as  a 
barrister  is  nothing  to  a  girl  who  is  set  on  an  ambassador. 
She  wished  for  riches  only  to  cast  them  at  her  idol's  feet. 
The  golden  background  against  which  the  figures  of  her 
dreams  stood  out  was  less  precious  than  her  heart  overflowing 
with  a  woman's  delicacy ;  for  her  ruling  idea  was  to  give 
wealth  and  happiness  to  a  Tasso,  a  Milton,  a  Jean-Jacques 
Rousseau,  a  Murat,  a  Christopher  Columbus.  Vulgar  sorrows 
appealed  but  little  to  this  soul,  which  longed  to  extinguish 
the  stake  of  such  martyrs  unrecognized  during  their  lifetime. 
Modeste  thirsted  for  unconfessed  suffering,  the  great  anguish 
of  the  mind. 

Sometimes  she  imagined  the  balm,  she  elaborated  the  ten- 
derness, the  music,  the  thousand  devices  by  which  she  would 
have  soothed  the  fierce  misanthropy  of  Jean-Jacques.  Again 
she  fancied  herself  the  wife  of  Lord  Byron,  and  almost  entered 
into  his  scorn  of  realities,  while  making  herself  as  fantastic  as 
the  poetry  of  Manfred,  and  into  his  doubts  while  making  him 
a  Catholic.  Modeste  accused  all  the  women  of  the  seven- 
teenth century  as  guilty  of  Moliere's  melancholy. 

"  How  is  it,"  she  wondered,  "  that  some  living,  wealthy, 
and  beautiful  woman  does  not  rush  forth  to  meet  every  man 
of  genius,  to  make  herself  his  slave  like  Lara,  the  mysterious 
page?" 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  47 

As  you  see,  she  had  quite  understood  the  English  poet's 
wail,  as  sung  by  Gulnare.  She  greatly  admired  the  conduct 
of  the  young  English  girl  who  came  to  propose  to  the  younger 
Cr6billon,  who  married  her.  The  story  of  Sterne  and  Eliza 
Draper  was  a  joy  to  her  for  some  months ;  as  the  imaginary 
heroine  of  a  similar  romance  she  studied  the  sublime  part  of 
Eliza  again  and  again.  The  exquisite  feeling  so  gracefully 
expressed  in  those  letters  filled  her  eyes  with  the  tears  which, 
it  is  said,  never  rose  to  those  of  the  wittiest  of  English  writers. 

Modeste  thus  lived  for  some  time  by  her  sympathy,  not 
merely  with  the  works,  but  with  the  personal  character  of  her 
favorite  authors.  Goldsmith,  the  author  of  "Obermann," 
Charles  Nodier,  Maturin — the  poorest,  the  most  unhappy  were 
her  gods;  she  understood  their  sufferings,  she  entered  into 
their  squalor,  blending  with  heaven-sent  visions;  she  poured 
on  them  the  treasures  of  her  heart ;  she  pictured  herself  clearly 
as  supplying  the  comforts  of  life  to  these  artists,  martyrs  to 
their  gifts.  This  noble  compassion,  this  intuitive  knowledge 
of  the  difficulties  of  work,  this  worship  for  talent,  is  one  of 
the  rarest  vagaries  that  ever  beat  its  wings  in  a  woman's  soul. 
At  first  it  is  like  a  secret  between  her  and  God,  for  there  is ' 
nothing  dazzling  in  it,  nothing  to  flatter  her  vanity — that 
potent  auxiliary  of  all  actions  in  France. 

From  this  third  phase  of  her  ideas  there  was  born  in 
Modeste  a  violent  desire  to  study  one  of  these  anomalous 
lives  to  the  very  heart  of  it,  to  know  the  springs  of  thought, 
the  secret  sorrows  of  genius,  and  what  it  craves,  and  what  it 
is.  And  so,  in  her,  the  rashness  of  phantasy,  the  wanderings 
of  her  soul  in  a  void,  her  excursions  into  the  darkness  of  the 
future,  the  impatience  of  her  undeveloped  love  to  centre  in  an 
object,  the  nobleness  of  her  notions  of  life,  her  determination 
to  suffer  in  some  lofty  sphere  rather  than  to  paddle  in  the 
slough  of  provincial  life  as  her  mother  had  done,  the  vow 
she  had  made  to  herself  never  to  go  wrong,  to  respect  her 
parents'  home,  and  never  bring  to  it  anything  but  joy — 


48  MODESTE  M1GNON. 

all  this  world  of  feeling  at  last  took  shape :  Modeste  purposed 
to  be  the  wife  of  a  poet,  an  artist ;  a  man,  in  short,  superior  to 
the  crowd ;  but  she  meant  to  choose  him,  and  to  subject  him 
to  a  thorough  study,  before  giving  him  her  heart,  her  life, 
her  immense  tenderness  freed  from  all  the  different  trammels 
of  passion. 

She  began  by  reveling  in  this  pretty  romance.  Perfect 
tranquillity  possessed  her  soul.  Her  countenance  was  grad- 
ually colored  by  it.  She  became  the  lovely  and  sublime 
image  of  Germany  that  you  have  seen,  the  glory  of  the  chalet, 
the  pride  of  Madame  Latournelle  and  the  Dumays.  Thus 
Modeste  lived  a  double  life.  She  humbly  and  lovingly  ful- 
filled all  the  trivial  tasks  of  daily  life  at  the  chalet,  using  them 
as  a  check  to  hold  in  the  poem  of  her  ideal  existence,  like  the 
Carthusians,  who  order  their  material  life  by  rule,  and  occupy 
their  time  to  allow  the  soul  to  develop  itself  in  prayer. 

All  great  intellects  subject  themselves  to  some  mechanical 
employment  to  obtain  control  of  thought.  Spinoza  ground 
lenses,  Bayle  counted  the  tiles  in  a  roof,  Montesquieu  worked 
in  his  garden.  The  body  being  thus  under  control,  the  spirit 
spreads  its  wings  in  perfect  security.  So  Madame  Mignon, 
who  read  her  daughter's  soul,  was  right.  Modeste  was  in 
love ;  she  loved  with  that  Platonic  sentiment  which  is  so  rare, 
so  little  understood — the  first  illusion  of  girlhood,  the  subtlest 
of  feelings,  the  heart's  daintiest  morsel.  She  drank  deep 
draughts  from  the  cup  of  the  unknown,  the  impossible,  the 
visionary.  She  delighted  in  the  blue  bird  of  the  Maiden's 
Paradise,  which  sings  far  away,  on  which  none  may  lay  hands, 
which  lets  itself  be  seen,  while  the  shot  of  no  gun  can  ever 
touch  it ;  its  magical  colors,  like  the  sparkling  of  gems,  dazzle 
the  eye,  but  it  is  never  more  seen  when  once  reality  ap- 
pears— the  hideous  Harpy  bringing  witnesses  and  the  maire 
in  her  train.  To  have  all  the  poetry  of  love  without  the 
presence  of  the  lover  !  How  exquisite  an  orgy  !  What  a  fair 
chimera  of  all  colors  and  every  plumage  ! 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  49 

This  was  the  trifling  foolish  accident  which  sealed  the  girl's 
fate. 

Modeste  saw  on  a  bookseller's  counter  a  lithographed  por- 
trait of  de  Canalis,  one  of  her  favorites.  You  know  what 
libels  these  sketches  are,  the  outcome  of  an  odious  kind  of 
speculation  which  falls  upon  the  persons  of  celebrated  men, 
as  if  their  faces  were  public  property.  So  Canalis,  caught  in  a 
Byronic  attitude,  offered  to  public  admiration  his  disordered 
hair,  his  bare  throat,  and  the  excessively  high  forehead  proper 
to  every  bard.  Victor  Hugo's  brow  will  lead  to  as  many 
heads  being  shaved  as  there  were  suckling  field -marshals  who 
rushed  to  die  on  the  strength  of  Napoleon's  glory. 

Modeste  was  struck  by  this  head,  made  sublime  by  com- 
mercial requirements ;  and  on  the  day  when  she  bought  the 
portrait,  one  of  the  finest  books  by  Arthes  had  just  come  out. 
Though  it  may  sound  to  her  discredit,  it  must  be  confessed 
that  she  long  hesitated  between  the  illustrious  poet  and  the 
illustrious  prose  writer.  But  were  these  two  great  men  unmar- 
ried ?  Modeste  began  by  securing  the  co-operation  of  Fran- 
<;oise  Cochet,  the  girl  whom  poor  Bettina  Caroline  had  taken 
with  her  from  le  Havre  and  brought  back  again.  She  lived 
in  the  town,  and  Madame  Mignon  and  Madame  Dumay  would 
employ  her  for  a  day's  work  in  preference  to  any  other. 
Modeste  had  this  somewhat  homely  creature  up  into  her 
room ;  she  swore  that  she  would  never  cause  her  parents  the 
smallest  grief,  nor  exceed  the  limits  imposed  on  a  young  lady; 
she  promised  Francoise  that  in  the  future,  on  her  father's 
return,  the  poor  girl  should  have  an  easy  life,  on  condition  of 
her  keeping  absolute  secrecy  as  to  the  service  required  of  her. 
What  was  it  ?  A  mere  trifle,  a  perfectly  innocent  thing.  All 
that  Modeste  asked  of  her  accomplice  was  that  she  should  post 
certain  letters  and  fetch  the  replies,  addressed  to  Franchise 
Cochet. 

The  bargain  concluded,  Modeste  wrote  a  polite  note  to 
Dauriat,  the  publisher  of  Canalis'  poems,  in  which  she  asked 
4 


50  MODES  TE  M1GNON. 

him,  in  the  interests  of  the  great  poet,  whether  Canalis  was 
married,  begging  him  to  address  the  answer  to  Mademoiselle 
Franchise,  poste  restante,  au  Havre.  Dauriat,  who,  of  course, 
could  not  take  such  a  letter  seriously,  sent  a  reply  concocted 
in  his  private  room  by  five  or  six  journalists,  each  in  turn 
adding  his  jest  : 

"MADEMOISELLE: — Canalis  (Baron  de),  Constant-Cyr- 
Melchior,  member  of  the  French  Academy,  born  in  1800  at 
Canalis,  Correze ;  stands  five  feet  four,  is  in  good  condition, 
vaccinated,  thoroughbred,  has  served  his  term  under  the  con- 
scription, enjoys  perfect  health,  has  a  small  landed  estate  in 
Correze,  and  wishes  to  marry,  but  looks  for  great  wealth. 

"  His  arms  are,  party  per  pale  gules  a  broad  axe  or,  and 
sable  a  shell  argent ;  surmounted  by  a  baron's  coronet ;  sup- 
porters, two  larches  proper.  The  motto  Or  et  fer  (gold  and 
iron)  has  never  proved  auriferous. 

"  The  first  Canalis,  who  went  to  the  Holy  Land  in  the  first 
crusade,  is  mentioned  in  the  Chronicles  of  Auvergne  as  carry- 
ing no  weapon  but  an  axe,  by  reason  of  the  complete  indi- 
gence in  which  he  lived,  and  which  has  ever  since  weighed 
on  his  posterity.  Hence,  no  doubt,  the  blazon.  The  axe 
brought  him  nothing  but  an  empty  shell.  This  noble  baron 
became  famous,  having  discomfited  many  infidels,  and  he 
died  at  Jerusalem,  without  either  gold  or  iron,  as  bare  as  a 
worm,  on  the  road  to  Ascalon,  the  ambulance  service  having 
not  yet  been  called  into  existence. 

"  The  castle  of  Canalis — the  land  yields  a  few  chestnuts — 
consists  of  two  dismantled  towers  joined  by  a  wall,  remark- 
able for  its  superior  growth  of  ivy,  and  it  pays  twenty-two 
francs  to  the  revenue. 

"  The  publisher,  undersigned,  begs  to  remark  that  he  pays 
Monsieur  de  Canalis  ten  thousand  francs  per  volume  for  his 
poetry.  He  does  not  give  his  empty  shells  for  nothing. 

"The  Bard  of  the  Correze  lives  at  Rue  de  Paradis-Poisson- 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  51 

niere,  No.  29,  which  is  a  suitable  situation  for  a  poet  of  the 
Seraphic  School.  Worms  (les  vers)  are  a  bait  for  gudgeon. 
Letters  must  be  prepaid. 

"  Certain  noble  dames  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain, 
often,  it  is  said,  make  their  way  to  paradise  and  patronize  the 
divinity.  King  Charles  X.  thinks  so  highly  of  this  great  poet 
as  to  believe  him  capable  of  becoming  a  statesman.  He  has 
recently  made  him  an  officer  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  and, 
what  is  more  to  the  purpose,  master  of  appeals,  attached  to 
the  ministry  for  foreign  affairs.  These  functions  in  no  way 
keep  the  great  man  from  drawing  a  pension  of  three  thousand 
francs  from  the  fund  devoted  to  the  encouragement  of  art 
and  letters.  This  pecuniary  success  causes,  in  the  publishing 
world,  an  eighth  plague  which  Egypt  was  spared — a  plague 
of  worms  (/«  vers)  \ 

"The  last  edition  of  the  works  of  Canalis,  printed  on  hand- 
made paper,  large  8vo,  with  vignettes  by  Bixiou,  Joseph  Bri- 
dau,  Schinner,  Sommervieux,  and  others,  printed  by  Didot, 
is  in  five  volumes,  price  nine  francs,  postpaid." 

This  letter  fell  like  a  paving-stone  on  a  tulip.  A  poet  as 
master  of  appeals,  in  the  immediate  circle  of  a  minister, 
drawing  a  pension,  aiming  at  the  red  rosette,  adored  of  the 
ladies  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain  !  Was  this  at  all  like 
the  threadbare  poet  wandering  on  the  quays,  melancholy  and 
dreamy,  overwrought  by  work,  and  climbing  up  to  his  garret 
again  loaded  with  poetic  inspiration?  At  the  same  time, 
Modeste  saw  through  the  jest  of  the  envious  publisher,  which 
conveyed,  "  I  made  Canalis  !  I  made  Nathan  !  "  Then  she 
re-read  Canalis'  verses,  very  catching  verses,  full  of  hypocrisy, 
and  which  require  a  few  words  of  analysis  if  only  to  explain 
her  infatuation. 

Canalis  is  distinguished  from  Lamartine,  the  chief  of  the 
Seraphic  School,  by  a  sort  of  sick-nurse  blarney,  a  perfidious 
sweetness,  and  exquisite  correctness.  If  the  chief,  with  his 


52  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

sublime  outcry,  may  be  called  an  eagle,  Canalis,  all  rose  and 
white,  is  a  flamingo.  In  him  women  discern  the  friend  they 
yearn  for,  a  discreet  confidant,  their  interpreter,  the  being 
who  understands  them,  and  who  explains  them  to  themselves. 
The  broad  margins  with  which  Dauriat  had  graced  his  last 
edition  were  covered  with  confessions  scribbled  in  pencil  by 
Modeste,  who  sympathized  with  this  dreamy  and  tender  soul. 
Canalis  has  not  life  in  his  gift ;  he  does  not  breathe  it  into  his 
creations ;  but  he  knows  how  to  soothe  vague  sufferings  such 
as  Modeste  was  a  victim  of.  He  speaks  to  girls  in  their  own 
language,  lulling  the  pain  of  the  most  recent  wounds,  and 
silencing  groans  and  even  sobs.  His  talent  does  not  consist 
in  preaching  loftily  to  the  sufferer,  in  giving  her  the  medi- 
cine of  strong  emotions ;  he  is  content  to  say  in  a  musical 
voice  which  commands  belief:  "I  am  unhappy,  as  you  are; 
I  understand  you  fully  ;  come  with  me,  we  will  weep  together 
on  the  bank  of  this  stream,  under  the  willows  !  "  And  they 
go !  and  listen  to  his  verse,  as  vacuous  and  as  sonorous  as  the 
song  of  a  nurse  putting  a  baby  to  sleep !  Canalis — like 
Nodier  in  this — bewitches  you  by  an  artlessness,  which  in  the 
prose  writer  is  natural  but  in  the  poet  elaborately  studied, -by 
his  archness,  his  smile,  his  fallen  flowers,  his  childlike  philos- 
ophy. He  mimics  the  language  of  early  days  well  enough  to 
carry  you  back  to  the  fair  field  of  illusion. 

To  an  eagle  we  are  pitiless ;  we  insist  on  the  quality  of  the 
diamond,  flawless  perfection  ;  but  from  Canalis  we  are  satis- 
fied with  the  orphan's  mite ;  everything  may  be  forgiven  him. 
He  seems  such  a  good  fellow,  human  above  everything. 
These  seraphic  airs  succeed  with  him,  as  those  of  a  woman 
will  always  succeed  if  she  acts  simplicity  well — the  startled, 
youthful,  martyred,  suffering  angel. 

Modeste,  summing  up  her  impressions,  felt  that  she  trusted 
that  soul,  that  countenance,  as  attractive  as  Bernardin  de 
Saint-Pierre's.  She  paid  no  heed  to  the  publisher.  And  so, 
at  the  beginning  of  the  month  of  August,  she  wrote  the  fol- 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  53 

lowing  letter  to  this  Dorat  of  the  sacristy,  who  even  now  is 
regarded  as  one  of  the  stars  of  the  modern  Pleiades : 


I. 

To  Monsieur  dc  Canalis. 

"  Many  times  ere  now,  monsieur,  I  have  intended  to  write 
you — and  why  ?  You  can  guess  :  to  tell  you  how  much  I  de- 
light in  your  talent.  Yes,  I  feel  a  longing  to  express  to  you 
the  admiration  of  a  poor  country-bred  girl,  very  solitary  in 
her  nook,  whose  sole  joy  is  in  reading  your  poetry.  From 
Rene  I  came  to  you.  Melancholy  tends  to  reverie.  How 
many  other  women  must  have  paid  you  the  homage  of  their 
secret  thoughts !  What  chance  have  I  of  being  of  the  elect 
in  such  a  crowd  !  What  interest  can  this  paper  have,  though 
full  of  my  soul,  above  all  the  perfumed  letters  which  beset 
you  ?  I  introduce  myself  with  more  to  perplex  you  than  any 
other  woman.  I  intend  to  remain  unknown,  and  yet  ask 
your  entire  confidence,  as  if  you  had  known  me  a  long  time. 

"  Answer  me,  be  kind  to  me.  I  do  not  pledge  myself 
to  tell  my  name  some  day,  still  I  do  not  positively  say  no. 
What  more  can  I  add  to  this  letter?  Regard  it,  monsieur, 
as  a  great  effort,  and  allow  me  to  offer  you  my  hand — oh, 
a  very  friendly  hand — that  of  your  servant, 

"O.    D'ESTE-M. 

"  If  you  do  me  the  favor  of  replying,  address  your 
letter,  I  beg,  to  Mademoiselle  F.  Cochet,  Poste  Restante,  le 
Havre." 

Now  every  damsel,  whether  romantic  or  not,  can  imagine 
Modeste's  impatience  during  the  next  few  days !  The  air 
was  full  of  tongues  of  flame ;  the  trees  looked  like  plumage ; 
she  did  not  feel  her  body ;  she  floated  above  nature  !  The 


54  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

earth  vanished  under  her  tread.  Wondering  at  the  powers  of 
the  postoffice,  she  followed  her  little  sheet  of  paper  through 
space;  she  was  glad,  as  we  are  glad  at  twenty  at  the  first 
exercise  of  our  will.  She  was  bewitched,  possessed,  as  peo- 
ple were  in  the  middle  ages.  She  pictured  to  herself  the 
poet's  lodgings,  his  room ;  she  saw  him  opening  the  letter, 
and  she  made  a  million  guesses. 

Having  sketched  his  poetry,  it  is  necessary  here  to  give 
an  outline  of  the  man.  Canalis  is  small  and  thin,  with  an 
aristocratic  figure;  dark;  gifted  with  a  foolish  face  and  a 
rather  insignificant  head,  that  of  a  man  who  has  more  vanity 
than  pride.  He  loves  luxury,  display,  and  splendor.  For- 
tune is  a  necessity  to  him  more  than  to  most  other  men.  No 
less  proud  of  his  birth  than  of  his  talent,  he  has  swamped 
his  ancestors  by  too-great  personal  pretensions.  After  all, 
the  Canalises  are  neither  Navarreins,  nor  Cadignans,  nor 
Grandlieus,  nor  Negrepelisses ;  however,  nature  has  done 
much  to  support  his  pretensions.  He  has  the  eyes  of  Oriental 
lustre  that  we  look  for  in  a  poet,  a  very  pretty  refinement  of 
manner,  a  thrilling  voice ;  but  a  mannerism  that  is  natural  to 
him  almost  nullifies  these  advantages.  He  is  an  actor  in 
perfect  good  faith.  He  displays  a  very  elegant  foot — it  is  an 
acquired  habit.  He  has  a  declamatory  style  of  talk,  but  it 
is  his  own.  His  affectation  is  theatrical,  but  it  has  become  a 
second  nature.  These  faults,  as  we  must  call  them,  are  in 
harmony  with  an  unfailing  generosity,  which  may  be  termed 
carpet-knightliness  in  contrast  to  chivalry.  Canalis  has  not 
faith  enough  to  be  a  Don  Quixote,  but  he  is  too  high-minded 
not  to  take  invariably  the  nobler  side  in  any  question.  His 
poetry,  which  comes  out  in  a  miliary  eruption  on  every  pos- 
sible occasion,  is  a  great  disadvantage  to  the  poet,  who  is  not 
indeed  lacking  in  wit,  but  whose  talent  hinders  his  wit  from 
developing.  He  is  the  slave  of  his  reputation ;  he  aims  at 
seeming  superior  to  it. 

Hence,  as  frequently  happens,  the  man  is  completely  out 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  55 

of  tune  with  the  products  of  his  mind.  The  author  of  these 
insinuating,  artless  poems,  full  of  tender  sentiment,  of  these 
calm  verses  as  clear  as  lake-ice,  of  this  caressing  womanish 
poetry,  is  an  ambitious  little  man,  buttoned  tightly  into  his 
coat,  with  the  air  of  a  diplomat,  dreaming  of  political  influ- 
ence, stinking  of  the  aristocrat,  scented  and  conceited,  thirst- 
ing for  a  fortune  that  he  may  have  an  income  equal  to  his 
ambitions,  and  already  spoiled  by  success  under  two  aspects 
— the  crown  of  bays  and  the  crown  of  myrtle.  A  salary  of 
eight  thousand  francs,  a  pension  of  three  thousand,  two  thou- 
sand from  the  Academic,  a  thousand  crowns  of  inherited 
income — a  good  deal  reduced  by  the  agricultural  requirements 
of  the  Canalis  estate,  and  the  ten  thousand  francs  he  gets 
from  his  poems  one  year  with  another — twenty-five  thousand 
francs  a  year  in  all. 

To  Modeste's  hero  this  income  was  all  the  more  precarious 
because  he  spent,  on  an  average,  five  or  six  thousand  francs  a 
year  more  than  he  received,  but  hitherto  the  King's  privy 
purse  and  the  secret  funds  of  the  ministry  had  made  up  the 
deficit.  He  had  composed  a  hymn  for  the  coronation,  for 
which  he  had  been  rewarded  with  a  service  of  plate ;  he 
refused  a  sum  of  money,  saying  that  the  Canalises  owed  their 
homage  to  the  King  of  France.  The  cavalier  King  smiled, 
and  ordered  from  Odiot  a  costly  version  of  the  well-known  lines 
from  "Zaire:" 

"  What !    Rhymester,  did  you  ever  hope  to  vie 
With  Charles  the  Tenth  in  generosity?" 

Canalis  had  drained  himself  dry,  to  use  a  picturesque  vul- 
garism ;  he  knew  that  he  was  incapable  of  inventing  a  fresh 
form  of  poetry ;  his  lyre  has  not  seven  strings,  it  has  but  one ; 
and  so  long  had  he  played  on  it  that  the  public  left  him  now 
no  choice  but  to  use  it  to  hang  himself,  or  be  silent.  De 
Marsay,  who  could  not  endure  Canalis,  had  uttered  a  sarcasm 


56  MODESTE  A11GNON. 

of  which  the  poisoned  dart  had  pierced  the  poet's  conceit  to 
the  quick. 

"  Canalis,"  he  had  said,  "  strikes  me  as  being  just  like  the 
man  of  whom  Frederick  the  Great  spoke  after  a  battle,  as  the 
trumpeter  who  had  never  ceased  blowing  the  same  note 
through  his  penny  pipe  !  " 

Canalis  was  anxious  to  become  a  political  personage,  and  as 
a  beginning  made  capital  of  a  journey  he  had  taken  to  Mad- 
rid when  the  Due  de  Chaulieu  was  ambassador,  accompany- 
ing him  as  attach* — but  to  the  Duchess,  as  the  jest  went  in 
fashionable  drawing-rooms.  How  often  has  a  jest  sealed  a 
man's  fate !  Colla,  the  erewhile  President  of  the  Cisalpine 
Republic,  and  the  greatest  advocate  in  Piemont,  is  told  by  a 
friend,  at  the  age  of  forty,  that  he  knows  nothing  of  botany  ; 
he  is  nettled,  he  becomes  a  Jussieu,  cultivates  flowers,  invents 
new  ones,  and  publishes,  in  Latin,  the  "Flora  of  Piemont," 
the  work  of  ten  years  ! 

"Well,  after  all,  Canning  and  Chateaubriand  were  states- 
men," said  the  extinguished  poet,  "and  in  me  de  Marsay 
shall  find  his  master  !  " 

Canalis  would  have  liked  to  write  an  important  political 
work ;  but  he  was  afraid  of  getting  into  trouble  with  French 
prose,  a  cruelly  exacting  medium  to  those  who  have  acquired 
the  habit  of  taking  four  Alexandrine  lines  to  express  one  idea. 
Of  all  the  poets  of  the  day,  only  three — Victor  Hugo, 
The'ophile  Gautier,  and  de  Vigny — have  been  able  to  conquer 
the  double  glory  of  a  poet  and  a  prose-writer,  which  was  also 
achieved  by  Voltaire,  Moliere,  and  Rabelais.  It  is  one  of 
the  rarest  triumphs  in  French  literature,  and  distinguishes  a 
poet  far  above  his  fellows.  Our  poet  of  the  Faubourg  Saint- 
Germain  was  therefore  very  wise  to  try  to  find  shelter  for  his 
chariot  under  the  guardian  roof  of  a  government  office. 

When  he  was  made  master  of  appeals,  he  felt  the  need  of 
a  secretary,  a  friend  who  might  fill  his  place  on  many  occa- 
sions, cook  his  affairs  with  publishers,  see  to  his  fame  in  the 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  57 

newspapers,  and,  at  a  pinch,  support  him  in  politics — in  short, 
who  would  be  his  satellite.  Several  men,  famous  in  art, 
science,  or  letters,  have  one  or  two  such  followers  in  Paris,  a 
captain  in  the  Guards,  or  a  court  chamberlain,  who  live  in 
the  beams  of  their  sunshine,  a  sort  of  aides-de-camp  intrusted 
with  delicate  tasks,  allowing  themselves  to  be  compromised 
at  need,  working  round  the  idol's  pedestal,  not  quite  his 
equals,  not  quite  his  superiors  ;  men  bold  in  puffery,  the  first 
in  every  breach,  covering  his  retreats,  looking  after  his  busi- 
ness, and  devoted  to  him  so  long  as  their  illusions  last  or  till 
their  claims  are  satisfied.  Some  at  last  perceive  that  their 
Great  Man  is  ungrateful ;  others  feel  that  they  are  being  made 
use  of;  many  weary  of  the  work;  and  few  indeed  are  satis- 
fied by  the  mild  interchange  of  sentiment,  the  only  reward  to 
be  looked  for  from  an  intimacy  with  a  superior  man,  and 
which  satisfied  AH,  raised  by  Mahomet  to  his-  own  level. 
Many,  deluded  by  their  self-conceit,  think  themselves  as 
clever  as  their  Great  Man.  Devotion  is  rare,  especially  with- 
out reward  and  without  hope,  as  Modeste  conceived  of  it. 

Nevertheless,  a  Menneval  is  occasionally  to  be  met  with ; 
and,  in  Paris  more  than  anywhere,  men  love  to  live  in  the 
shade  and  to  work  in  silence,  Benedictines  who  have  lost 
their  way  in  a  world  which  has  no  monastery  for  them. 
These  valiant  lambs  bear  in  their  deeds  and  in  their  private 
lives  the  poetry  which  writers  put  into  words.  They  are 
poets  at  heart,  in  their  secluded  meditations,  in  their  tender- 
ness, as  others  are  poets  on  paper,  in  the  fields  of  intellect, 
and  at  so  much  a  verse,  like  Lord  Byron — like  all  those  who 
live,  alas  !  by  ink,  which  in  these  days  is  the  water  of  Hippo- 
crene,  for  which  the  government  is  to  blame. 

It  was  a  young  consulting  referendary  of  the  court  of 
exchequer  who  constituted  himself  the  poet's  secretary;  he 
was  attracted  by  the  poet's  fame,  and  the  future  prospects  of 
this  vaunted  political  genius,  and  led  by  the  advice  of  Madame 
d'Espard,  who  thus  played  the  Duchesse  de  Chaulieu's  cards 


58  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

for  her  ;  and  Canal  is  made  much  of  him,  as  a  speculator  does 
of  his  first  shareholder.  The  beginnings  of  this  alliance  had 
quite  an  air  of  friendship.  The  younger  man  had  already 
gone  through  a  course  of  the  same  kind  with  one  of  the  min- 
isters who  fell  in  1827;  but  the  minister  had  taken  care  to 
find  him  a  place  in  the  exchequer. 

Ernest  de  la  Briere,  at  that  time  seven-and-twenty,  decor- 
ated with  the  Legion  of  Honor,  with  nothing  in  the  world 
but  the  emoluments  of  his  office,  had  the  habit  of  business, 
and,  after  hanging  about  the  private  room  of  the  prime  min- 
ister for  four  years,  he  knew  a  good  deal.  He  was  gentle, 
amiable,  with  an  almost  maidenly  soul,  full  of  good  feeling, 
and  he  hated  to  be  seen  in  the  foreground.  He  loved  his 
country,  he  yearned  to  be  of  use,  but  brilliancy  dazzled  him. 
If  he  had  had  his  choice,  the  place  of  secretary  to  a  Napoleon 
would  have  been  more  to  his  mind  than  that  of  prime 
minister. 

Ernest,  having  become  the  friend  of  Canalis,  did  great 
things  for  him,  but  in  eighteen  months  he  became  aware  of  the 
shallowness  of  a  nature  which  was  poetical  merely  in  its  liter- 
ary expression.  The  truth  of  the  homely  proverb,  "  The 
cowl  does  not  make  the  monk,"  is  especially  applicable  in 
literature.  It  is  most  rare  to  find  a  talent  and  character  in 
harmony.  A  man's  faculties  are  not  the  sum-total  of  a  man. 
This  discord,  of  which  the  manifestations  are  startling,  is  the 
outcome  of  an  unexplored — a  perhaps  unexplorable — mystery. 
The  brain  and  its  products  of  every  kind — since  in  the  art? 
the  hand  of  man  carries  out  his  brain — form  a  world  apart 
that  flourishes  under  the  skull,  perfectly  independent  of  the 
feelings,  of  what  are  called  the  virtues  of  a  citizen,  of  the 
head  of  a  family,  of  a  private  householder.  And  yet  this  is 
not  final ;  nothing  in  man  is  final.  It  is  certain  that  a 
debauchee  will  exhaust  his  talent  in  orgies,  and  a  drunkard 
drown  it  in  his  libations,  while  a  good  man  can  never  acquire 
talent  by  wholesome  decency  ;  but  it  is  also  almost  proved  that 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  59 

Virgil,  the  poet  of  love,  never  loved  a  Dido;  and  that 
Rousseau,  the  pattern  citizen,  had  pride  enough  to  furnish 
forth  a  whole  aristocracy.  Nevertheless,  Michael  Angelo  and 
Raphael  showed  the  happy  concord  of  talent  and  character. 
Hence  talent  is  in  men,  as  far  as  the  individual  is  con- 
cerned, what  beauty  is  in  women — a  promise.  Let  us  give 
twofold  admiration  to  the  man  whose  heart  and  character 
are  equally  perfect  with  his  talent. 

Ernest,  when  he  detected  under  the  poet  an  ambitious 
egoist — the  worst  species  of  egoist,  for  some  are  amiable — 
felt  a  singular  diffidence  about  leaving  him.  Honest  souls 
do  not  easily  break  their  bonds,  especially  those  they  have 
voluntarily  accepted.  The  secretary,  then,  was  on  very 
good  terms  with  the  poet  when  Modeste's  letter  was  flying 
through  the  mail,  but  on  the  good  terms  of  constant  self- 
effacement.  La  Briere  felt  he  owed  Canalis  something  for 
the  frankness  with  which  he  had  revealed  himself.  And  in- 
deed, in  this  man,  who  will  be  accounted  great  so  long  as  he 
lives,  and  made  much  of,  like  Marmontel,  his  defects  are  the 
seamy  side  of  brilliant  qualities.  But  for  his  vanity,  his  pre- 
tentious conceit,  he  might  not  have  been  gifted  with  that 
sonorous  verbiage  which  is  a  necessary  instrument  in  the  polit- 
ical life  of  the  day.  His  shallowness  is  part  of  his  rectitude 
and  loyalty  ;  his  ostentation  is  paired  with  liberality.  Society 
profits  by  the  results  ;  the  motives  may  be  left  to  God. 

Still,  when  Modeste's  letter  arrived,  Ernest  had  no  illusions 
left  as  to  Canalis.  The  two  friends  had  just  breakfasted  and 
were  chatting  in  the  poet's  study ;  he  was  at  that  time  living 
in  first-floor  rooms  looking  out  on  a  garden,  beyond  a  court- 
yard. 

"Ah!"  cried  Canalis,  "I  was  saying  the  other  day  to 
Madame  de  Chaulieu  that  I  must  cast  forth  some  new  poem ; 
admiration  is  running  low,  for  it  is  some  time  since  I  have 
had  any  anonymous  letters " 

"An  unknown  lady?" 


60  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

"  Unknown  !  A  d'Este,  and  from  le  Havre !  It  is  evi- 
dently an  assumed  name  !  " 

And  Canalis  handed  the  letter  to  la  Briere.  This  poem, 
this  veiled  enthusiasm — in  short,  Modeste's  very  heart — was 
recklessly  exposed  by  the  gesture  of  a  coxcomb. 

"  It  is  a  grand  thing,"  said  the  young  accountant,  "thus  to 
attract  the  chastest  feelings,  to  compel  a  helpless  woman  to 
shake  off  the  habits  forced  upon  her  by  education,  by  nature, 

by  society,  to   break   through   conventionalities What 

privileges  genius  commands  !  A  letter  like  this  in  my  hand, 
written  by  a  girl,  a  genuine  girl,  without  reservation,  with 
enthusiasm ' ' 

"Well?"  said  Canalis. 

"Well,  if  you  had  suffered  as  much  as  Tasso,  you  ought  to 
find  it  reward  enough  !  "  exclaimed  la  Briere. 

"So  we  tell  ourselves  at  the  first  or  at  the  second  letter," 

said  Canalis.     "But  at  the  thirtieth  ! but  when  we  have 

discovered  that  the  young  enthusiast  is  an  old  hand  !  but  when 
at  the  end  of  the  radiant  path  traveled  over  by  the  poet's  im- 
agination we  have  seen  some  English  old  maid  sitting  on  a 
milestone  and  holding  out  her  hand  !  but  when  the  angel,  by 
post,  turns  into  a  poor  creature,  moderately  good-looking,  in 
search  of  a  husband  ! —  Well,  then,  the  effervescence  sub- 
sides." 

"  I  am  beginning  to  think,"  said  la  Briere,  smiling,  "that 
glory  has  something  poisonous  in  it,  like  certain  gorgeous 
flowers." 

"Beside,  my  dear  fellow,"  Canalis  went  on,  "all  these 
women,  even  when  they  are  sincere,  have  an  ideal  to  which 
we  rarely  correspond.  They  never  tell  themselves  that  a 
poet  is  a  man,  and  a  tolerably  vain  one,  as  I  am  accused  of 
being ;  it  never  occurs  to  them  that  he  is  rough-ridden  by  a 
sort  of  feverish  excitement  which  makes  him  disagreeable  and 
uncertain.  They  want  him  to  be  always  great,  always  splen- 
did ;  they  never  dream  that  talent  is  a  disease ;  that  Nathan 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  61 

lives  on  Florine  ;  that  d'Arthez  is  too  fat ;  that  Joseph  Bridau 
is  too  thin  ;  that  Beranger  can  go  on  foot ;  that  the  divinity 
may  foam  at  the  mouth.  A  Lucien  de  Rubempre,  a  verse- 
writer  and  a  pretty  fellow,  is  a  phoenix.  So  why  go  out  of 
your  way  to  receive  bad  compliments  and  sit  under  the  cold 
shower-bath  of  a  disillusioned  woman's  helpless  stare?" 

"Then  the  true  poet,"  said  la  Briere,  "ought  to  remain 
hidden,  like  God,  in  the  centre  of  his  universe,  and  be  visible 
only  in  his  creations  !  " 

"Then  glory  would  be  too  dearly  paid  for,"  replied  Can- 
alis.  "There  is  some  good  in  life,  I  tell  you,"  said  he, 
taking  a  cup  of  tea.  "  When  a  woman  of  birth  and  beauty 
loves  a  poet,  she  does  not  hide  herself  in  the  gallery  or 
the  stage-box  of  a  theatre,  like  a  duchess  smitten  by  an  actor ; 
she  feels  strong  enough  and  sufficiently  protected  by  her 
beauty,  by  her  fortune,  by  her  name,  to  say,  as  in  every  epic 
poem,  'I  am  the  nymph  Calypso,  and  I  love  Telemachus.' 
Mystification  is  the  resource  of  small  minds.  For  some  time 
now  I  have  never  answered  such  masqueraders " 

"  Oh  !  how  I  could  love  a  woman  who  had  come  to  me  !  " 
cried  la  Briere,  restraining  a  tear.  "  It  may  be  said  in  reply, 
my  dear  Canalis,  that  it  is  never  a  poor  creature  that  rises  to 
the  level  of  a  celebrated  man ;  she  is  too  suspicious,  too  vain, 
too  much  afraid.  It  is  always  a  star,  a " 

"A  princess,"  said  Canalis,  with  a  shout  of  laughter, 
"who  condescends  to  him,  I  suppose?  My  dear  fellow, 
such  things  happen  once  in  a  century.  Such  a  passion  is 
like  the  plant  that  flowers  once  in  a  hundred  years.  Prin- 
cesses who  are  young,  rich,  and  handsome  have  too  much  else 
to  do ;  they  are  enclosed,  like  all  rare  plants,  within  a  hedge 
of  silly  men,  well-born  and  well-bred,  and  as  empty  as  an 
alder-stem.  My  dream,  alas  !  the  crystal  of  my  dream  hung 
with  garlands  of  flowers  all  the  way  hither  from  la  Correze, 
and  with  what  fervor  !  But  no  more  of  that ! — it  is  in  frag- 
ments, at  my  feet,  long  since.  No,  no,  every  anonymous 


62  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

letter  is  a  beggar  !  And  what  demands  they  make.  Write 
to  this  young  person,  assuming  her  to  be  young  and  pretty, 
and  you  will  see  !  You  will  have  your  hands  full.  One  can- 
not, in  reason,  love  every  woman.  Apollo,  or,  at  any  rate, 
the  Apollo  Belvedere,  is  a  consumptive  dandy  who  must  save 
his  strength." 

"But  when  a  woman  comes  to  you  like  this,"  argued 
Ernest,  "her  excuse  must  lie  in  her  certainty  that  she  can 
eclipse  the  most  adored  mistress  in  tenderness,  in  beauty — 
and  then  a  little  curiosity " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Canalis,  "  my  too  youthful  Ernest,  you  must 
allow  me  to  be  faithful  to  the  fair  Duchess,  who  is  all  my  joy  !" 

"You  are  right — too  right,"  replied  Ernest. 

Nevertheless,  the  young  secretary  read  and  re-read  Mod- 
este's  letter,  trying  to  guess  the  mind  behind  it. 

"  But  there  is  nothing  extravagant  in  it,  no  appeal  to  your 
genius,  only  to  your  heart,"  he  said  to  Canalis.  "This  per- 
fume of  modesty  and  the  exchange  proposed  would  tempt 
me " 

"  Sign  it  yourself;  answer  her,  and  follow  up  the  adventure 
to  the  end  ;  it  is  a  poor  bargain  that  I  offer  you,"  exclaimed 
Canalis,  with  a  smile.  "  Go  on  ;  you  will  have  something  to 
tell  me  in  three  months'  time,  if  it  lasts  three  months." 

Four  days  after  Modeste  received  the  following  letter, 
written  on  handsome  paper,  under  a  double  cover,  and  sealed 
with  the  arms  of  Canalis : 

II. 

To  Mademoiselle  O.  d'  Este-M. 

"  MADEMOISELLE  : — Admiration  for  great  works — admitting 
that  mine  may  be  great — implies  a  certain  holy  simplicity 
which  is  a  defense  against  irony  and  a  justification,  in  the 
eyes  of  every  tribunal,  of  the  step  you  have  taken  in  writing 


MODESTE  MIGNOM.  63 

me.  Above  all,  I  must  thank  you  for  the  pleasure  which  such 
a  testimonial  never  fails  to  give,  even  when  undeserved,  for 
the  writer  of  verse  and  the  poet  alike  secretly  believe  them- 
selves worthy  of  them,  self-love  is  a  form  of  matter  so  far  from 
repellent  of  praise.  The  best  proof  of  friendship  that  I  can 
give  to  an  unknown  lady  in  return  for  this  balm,  which  heals 
the  stings  of  criticism,  is  surely  to  share  with  her  the  harvest 
of  my  experience,  at  the  risk  of  scaring  away  her  living 
illusions. 

"  Mademoiselle,  the  noblest  palm  a  young  girl  can  bear  is 
that  of  a  saintly,  pure,  and  blameless  life.  Are  you  alone  in 
the  world?  That  is  a  sufficient  answer.  But  if  you  have  a 
family,  a  father,  or  a  mother,  consider  all  the  sorrows  that  a 
letter  like  yours  may  entail — written  to  a  poet  whom  you  do 
not  know.  Not  every  writer  is  an  angel ;  they  have  their 
faults.  Some  are  fickle,  reckless,  conceited,  ambitious,  dis- 
sipated ;  and  imposing  as  innocence  must  be,  chivalrous  as  a 
French  poet  may  be,  you  might  find  more  than  one  degener- 
ate bard  willing  to  encourage  your  affection  only  to  betray  it. 
Then  your  letter  would  not  be  interpreted  as  I  read  it.  He 
would  find  a  meaning  in  it  which  you  have  not  put  there,  and 
which  in  your  innocence  you  do  not  even  suspect.  Many 
authors,  many  natures  ! 

"  I  am  extremely  flattered  by  your  having  thought  me 
worthy  to  understand  you ;  but  if  you  had  addressed  yourself 
to  an  insincere  talent,  to  a  cynic  whose  writings  were  melan- 
choly while  his  life  was  a  continual  carnival,  you  might  have 
found  at  the  end  of  your  sublime  imprudence  some  bad  man, 
a  dangler  behind  the  scenes,  or  a  wine-shop  hero  !  You,  under 
the  arbor  of  clematis  where  you  dream  over  poetry,  cannot 
smell  the  stale  cigar  smoke  which  depoetizes  the  manuscript ; 
just  as  when  you  go  to  a  ball,  dressed  in  the  dazzling  products 
of  the  jeweler's  skill,  you  never  think  of  the  sinewy  arms,  the 
toilers  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  the  wretched  workshops  whence 
spring  these  radiant  flowers  of  handicraft. 


64  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

"  Go  further.  What  is  there  in  the  solitary  life  of  reverie 
that  you  lead— by  the  seashore,  no  doubt— to  interest  a  poet 
whose  task  it  is  to  divine  everything,  since  he  must  describe 
everything?  Our  young  girls  here  are  so  highly  accomplished 
that  no  daughter  of  Eve  can  vie  with  them !  What  reality 
was  ever  so  good  as  a  dream?  And  you  now,  you,  a  young 
girl  brought  up  to  be  the  duteous  mother  of  a  family,  what 
would  you  gain  by  an  initiation  into  the  terrible  excitement 
of  a  poet's  life  in  this  appalling  capital,  to  be  denned  only  as 
a  hell  we  love. 

"  If  you  took  up  your  pen,  prompted  by  the  wish  to  enliven 
your  monotonous  existence  as  an  inquisitive  girl,  has  not  this 
a  semblance  of  depravity  ?  What  meaning  am  I  to  attribute 
to  your  letter?  Are  you  one  of  a  caste  of  reprobates,  seek- 
ing a  friend  at  a  distance  ?  Are  you  cursed  with  ugliness, 
and  do  you  feel  you  have  a  noble  soul  with  none  to  trust  ? 
Alas  ! — a  sad  conclusion — you  have  either  gone  too  far  or  not 
far  enough.  Either  let  it  end  here,  or,  if  you  persist,  tell  me 
more  than  in  the  letter  you  have  already  written. 

"But,  mademoiselle,  if  you  are  young,  if  you  have  a  fam- 
ily, if  you  feel  that  you  bear  in  your  heart  a  heavenly  spike- 
nard, to  be  shed,  as  the  Magdalen  shed  hers  on  Christ's  feet, 
suffer  yourself  to  be  appreciated  by  some  man  who  is  worthy 
of  you,  and  become  what  every  good  girl  should  attain — an 
admirable  wife,  the  virtuous  mother  of  children.  A  poet  is 
the  poorest  conquest  any  young  woman  can  aspire  to ;  he  has 
too  much  vanity,  too  many  salient  angles  which  must  run 
counter  to  the  legitimate  vanity  of  a  wife,  and  bruise  the 
tenderness  which  has  no  experience  of  life.  The  poet's  wife 
should  love  him  for  long  before  marrying  him ;  she  must 
resign  herself  to  be  as  charitable  and  as  indulgent  as  the 
angels,  to  all  the  virtues  of  motherhood.  These  qualities, 
mademoiselle,  exist  only  as  a  germ  in  a  young  girl. 

"  Listen  to  the  whole  truth  ;  do  I  not  owe  it  you  in  return 
for  your  intoxicating  flattery?  Though  it  may  be  glorious  to 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  g6 

marry  a  great  celebrity,  a  woman  soon  discovers  that  a  man, 
however  superior,  is  but  a  man  like  all  others.  He  then  the 
less  fulfills  her  hopes,  because  miracles  are  expected  of  him. 
A  famous  poet  is  then  in  the  predicament  of  a  woman  whose 
overpraised  beauty  makes  us  say,  '  I  had  pictured  her  as  hand- 
somer ; '  she  does  not  answer  to  the  requirements  of  the  por- 
trait sketched  by  the  same  fairy  to  whom  I  owe  your  letter — 
Imagination  ! 

"  Again,  great  qualities  of  mind  develop  and  flourish  only 
in  an  invisible  sphere ;  the  poet's  wife  sees  only  the  unpleas- 
ant side  of  it ;  she  sees  the  jewels  made  instead  of  wearing 
them.  If  the  brilliancy  of  an  exceptional  position  is  what 
fascinates  you,  I  warn  you,  its  pleasures  are  soon  exhausted. 
You  would  be  provoked  to  find  so  much  that  is  rough  in  a 
situation  which  from  afar  looks  so  smooth,  so  much  ice  on  a 
glittering  height !  And  then,  as  women  never  have  set  foot 
in  the  world  of  difficulty,  they  presently  cease  to  value  what 
they  once  admired,  when  they  fancy  that  they  have  under- 
stood the  workmanship  at  a  glance. 

"  I  will  conclude  with  a  last  reflection,  which  you  will  do 
wrong  to  mis-read  as  an  entreaty  in  disguise  ;  it  is  the  advice 
of  a  friend.  A  communion  of  souls  cannot  be  complete  ex- 
cepting between  two  persons  who  are  prepared  to  conceal 
nothing.  Could  you  show  yourself  as  you  really  are  to  a 
stranger  ?  I  pause  before  the  consequences  of  such  a  notion. 

"Accept,  mademoiselle,  all  the  respect  we  owe  to  every 
woman,  even  to  those  who  are  unknown,  and  who  wear  a 
mask." 

To  think  that  she  had  carried  this  letter  between  her  skin 

and  her  stays,  under  the  scorching  busk,  for  a  whole  day  ! 

that  she  had  postponed  reading  it  till  an  hour  when  every- 
body was  asleep,  till  midnight,  after  waiting  for  the  solemn 

hour  in  the  pangs  of  a  fiery  imagination  ! that  she  had 

blessed  the  poet,  had  read  in  fancy  a  thousand  letters,  had 
5 


66  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

conceived  of  everything  excepting  this  drop  of  cold  water 
shed  on  the  most  diaphanous  visions  of  fancy,  and  destroying 
them  as  prussic  acid  destroys  life.  It  was  enough  to  make 
her  hide  her  face — as  Modeste  did — under  her  sheets,  though 
she  was  alone,  and  put  out  the  candle,  and  weep. 

All  this  happened  in  the  early  days  of  July.  Modeste  pres- 
ently got  up,  paced  her  room,  and  then  opened  the  window. 
She  wanted  air.  The  scent  of  flowers  came  up  to  her  with 
the  peculiar  freshness  of  night-perfumes.  The  sea,  lighted  up 
by  the  moon,  twinkled  like  a  mirror.  A  nightingale  was 
singing  in  the  Vilquins'  park. 

"Ah  !  there  is  the  poet !  "  said  Modeste  to  herself,  her 
anger  dying  out. 

The  bitterest  reflections  crowded  on  her  mind.  She  was 
stung  to  the  quick ;  she  wanted  to  read  the  letter  again.  She 
re-lighted  the  candle,  and  studied  this  careful  production,  till 
at  last  she  heard  the  early  voices  of  real  life. 

"  He  is  in  the  right,  and  I  am  in  the  wrong,"  thought  she. 
"  But  how  could  I  expect  to  find  one  of  Moli&re's  old  men 
under  the  star-spangled  robe  of  a  poet  ?  " 

When  a  woman  or  a  girl  is  caught  red-handed,  she  feels 
intense  hatred  of  the  witness,  the  first  cause,  or  the  object  of 
her  folly.  And  so  Modeste,  genuine,  natural,  and  coy,  felt 
her  heart  swell  with  a  dreadful  longing  to  trample  on  this 
essence  of  rectitude  and  throw  him  into  some  abyss  of  con- 
tradiction, anything  she  could  devise  to  pay  him  back  this 
stunning  blow. 

The  pure-hearted  child,  whose  head  alone  had  been  cor- 
rupted by  her  reading,  by  her  sister's  long  agony,  and  by  the 
perilous  meditations  of  her  solitude,  was  roused  by  a  sunbeam 
falling  on  her  face.  She  had  lain  for  three  hours  tacking 
about  on  the  immense  ocean  of  doubt.  Such  nights  are  never 
forgotten. 

Modeste  went  at  once  to  her  little  lacquer  table,  her  father's 
gift,  and  wrote  a  letter  dictated  by  the  infernal  spirit  of  re- 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  87 

venge  which  disports  itself  at  the  bottom  of  a  young  girl's 
heart : 


III. 

To  Monsieur  de  Canafft. 

"  MONSIEUR  : — You  are  certainly  a  great  poet,  but  you  are 
something  better — an  honest  man.  After  showing  so  much 
frank  loyalty  to  a  young  girl  on  the  verge  of  an  abyss,  have 
you  enough  to  reply  without  the  least  hypocrisy  or  evasion  to 
this  question — 

"  Would  you  have  written  the  .letter  I  have  received  in  an- 
swer to  mine — would  your  ideas,  your  language,  have  been 
the  same  if  some  one  had  whispered  in  your  ear,  what  may  be 
true  :  '  Mademoiselle  O.  d'Este-M.  has  six  millions  of  francs, 
and  does  not  want  to  have  a  simpleton  for  her  master?' 

"  For  one  moment  admit  this  hypothesis  for  a  fact.  Be  as 
honest  with  me  as  with  yourself;  fear  nothing,  I  am  superior 
to  my  twenty  years ;  nothing  that  is  genuine  can  injure  you 
in  my  estimation.  When  I  shall  have  read  that  confession,  if, 
indeed,  you  vouchsafe  to  make  it  to  me,  you  shall  have  an 
answer  to  your  first  letter. 

"After  admiring  your  talent,  which  is  often  sublime,  allow 
me  to  do  homage  to  your  delicacy  and  rectitude,  which  compel 
me  to  sign  myself 

"Your  humble  servant, 

"O.  D'ESTE-M." 

When  this  note  was  placed  in  la  Briere's  hands,  he  went 
out  to  walk  on  the  boulevards,  tossed  in  his  soul  like  a  light 
bark  in  the  tempest  when  the  wind  blows  every  minute  from  a 
different  point  of  the  compass.  One  of  the  young  men  of 
whom  we  meet  so  many — a  true  Parisian — would  have  summed 
up  the  case  in  these  words,  "An  old  hand  !  "  But  to  a  young 


68  MODESTE   MIGNON. 

fellow  whose  soul  is  lofty  and  refined,  this  sort  of  implied 
oath,  this  appeal  to  veracity,  had  the  power  to  arouse  the  three 
judges  that  lurk  at  the  bottom  of  every  conscience.  And 
Honor,  Truth,  and  Justice,  rising  erect,  as  it  were,  thus  cried 
aloud. 

"Ah  !  my  dear  Ernest,"  said  Truth,  "  you  certainly  would 
not  have  written  a  lecture  to  a  rich  heiress.  No,  no,  my  boy, 
you  would  have  set  off,  nose  on,  for  le  Havre,  to  find  out 
whether  the  young  lady  was  handsome,  and  you  would  have 
been  much  aggrieved  by  the  preference  given  to  genius.  And 
if  you  only  could  have  tripped  your  friend  up,  and  have  made 
yourself  acceptable  in  his  place,  Mademoiselle  d'Este  would 
have  been  divine  !  "  "  What,"  said  Justice,  "  you  pity  your- 
selves, you  men  of  brains  or  wit,  and  without  cash,  when  you 
see  rich  girls  married  to  men  whom  you  would  not  employ  as 
porters ;  you  run  amuck  against  the  sordidness  of  the  age, 
which  is  eager  to  wed  money  with  money,  and  never  to  unite 
some  fine  young  fellow  full  of  talent  to  a  rich  and  high-born 
beauty ;  now  here  is  one  who  rebels  against  the  spirit  of  the 
time,  and  the  poet  retorts  with  a  blow  on  the  heart !  "  "  Rich 
or  poor,  young  or  old,  handsome  or  plain,  this  girl  is  in  the 
right,  she  has  brains,  she  casts  the  poet  into  the  mire  of  self- 
interest,"  cried  Honor.  "  She  deserves  a  sincere,  noble,  and 
honest  reply ;  and,  above  all,  the  true  expression  of  your 
thought !  Examine  yourself.  Sound  your  heart,  and  purge 
it  of  its  meanness!  What  would  Moliere's  Alceste  say?" 
And  la  Briere,  starting  from  the  Boulevard  Poissonniere,  lost 
in  meditation,  walked  so  slowly  that  at  the  end  of  an  hour  he 
had  but  just  reached  the  Boulevard  des  Capucines.  He  re- 
turned by  the  quays  to  the  exchequer,  at  that  time  situated  near 
the  Sainte-Chapelle.  Instead  of  verifying  accounts,  he  sat 
under  the  spell  of  his  perplexities. 

"She  has  not  six  millions,  that  is  clear,"  said  he  to  himself; 
"  but  that  is  not  the  question " 

Six  days  later  Modeste  received  the  following  letter : 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  gg 

IV. 
To  Mademoiselle  O.  d'  Este-M. 

"  MADEMOISELLE  :— You  are  not  a  d'Este.  That  is  an 
assumed  name  to  conceal  your  own.  Are  such  revelations  as 
you  request  due  to  a  person  who  is  false  as  to  her  identity  ? 
Attend  ;  I  will  answer  your  question  by  asking  another,  Are 
you  of  illustrious  parentage  ?  of  noble  birth  ?  of  a  family  of 
townsfolk  ? 

"  Morality  indeed  cannot  change ;  it  is  one;  but  its  obliga- 
tions vary  in  different  spheres.  As  the  sun  sheds  a  different 
light  on  different  aspects,  producing  the  variety  we  admire, 
morality  makes  social  duty  conform  to  rank  and  position. 
What  is  a  peccadillo  in  the  soldier  is  a  crime  in  the  general, 
and  vice  versa.  The  proprieties  are  not  the  same  for  a  peasant- 
girl  who  reaps  the  field,  for  a  workwoman  at  fifteen  sous  a 
day,  for  the  daughter  of  a  small  shopkeeper,  for  a  young  girl 
of  the  middle  class,  for  the  child  of  a  rich  commercial  house, 
for  the  heiress  of  a  noble  family,  for  a  daughter  of  the  race  of 
Este.  A  king  must  not  stoop  to  pick  up  a  gold  coin,  and  a 
workman  must  turn  back  to  look  for  a  piece  of  ten  sous  he  has 
dropped,  though  both  alike  ought  to  observe  the  laws  of 
economy.  A  d'Este  owning  six  millions  of  francs  may  wear 
a  broad-brimmed  hat  and  feathers,  flourish  a  riding  whip, 
mount  an  Arab  horse,  and  come  as  an  Amazon  in  gold  lace, 
followed  by  a  groom,  to  say  to  a  poet,  '  I  love  poetry,  and  I 
desire  to  expiate  the  wrongs  done  by  Leonora  to  Tasso,'  while 
the  daughter  of  a  merchant  would  be  simply  ridiculous  in 
imitating  her. 

"  To  what  social  class  do  you  belong?    Answer  truly,  and 
I  will  as  truly  reply  to  the  question  you  ask  me. 

"  Not  being  so   happy  as  to  know   you,  though   already 
bound  to  you  by  a  sort  of  poetical  communion,  I  do  not  like 


70  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

to  offer  you  any  vulgar  homage.  It  is  already  a  triumph  of 
mischief  for  you  perhaps  to  have  perplexed  a  man  whose 
books  are  published." 

The  young  accountant  was  not  lacking  in  the  skill  of  fence 
which  a  man  of  honor  may  allow  himself.  By  return  of  post 
he  received  this  reply: 

V. 

To  Monsieur  de  Canalis. 

"You  are  more  and  more  cautious,  my  dear  poet.  My 
father  is  a  count.  The  most  distinguished  member  of  our 
family  was  a  cardinal,  in  the  days  when  cardinals  were  the 
equals  of  kings.  At  the  present  day  our  race,  almost  extinct, 
ends  in  me;  but  I  have  the  necessary  quarterings  to  admit 
me  to  any  court  or  any  chapter.  In  short,  we  are  a  match 
for  the  Canalises.  Excuse  my  not  forwarding  our  coat-of- 
arms. 

"  Try  to  write  as  sincerely  as  I  do.     I  await  your  reply  to 
know  whether  I  may  still  subscribe  myself,  as  now, 
"Your  servant, 

"  O.  D'ESTE-M." 

"  What  advantage  the  young  person  takes  of  her  position ! " 
exclaimed  la  Briere.  "  But  is  she  truthful?  " 

It  is  not  for  nothing  that  a  man  has  been  for  four  years  a 
minister's  private  secretary ;  that  he  has  lived  in  Paris  and 
watched  its  intrigues ;  and  the  purest  soul  is  always  more  or 
less  intoxicated  by  the  heady  atmosphere  of  the  Empress  City. 
La  Briere,  rejoicing  that  he  was  not  Canalis,  secured  a  place 
in  the  mail-coach  for  le  Havre,  after  writing  a  letter  in  which 
he  promised  a  reply  by  a  certain  day,  excusing  the  delay  by 
the  importance  of  the  confession  required  of  him  and  the 
business  of  his  office.  He  took  the  precaution  of  obtaining 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  71 

from  the  director-general  of  the  mails  a  line  enjoining  silence 
and  compliance  on  the  head  of  the  office  at  le  Havre.  He 
could  thus  wait  to  see  Franchise  Cochet  arrive  at  the  office, 
and  quietly  follow  her  home.  Guided  by  her,  he  mounted 
the  hill  of  Ingouville,  and  saw  Modeste  Mignon  at  the  window 
of  the  chalet. 

"Well,  Francoise?"  asked  the  girl. 

"Yes,  mademoiselle,  I  have  one." 

Ernest,  struck  by  this  celestially  fair  type  of  beauty,  turned 
on  his  heel,  and  inquired  of  a  passer-by  the  name  of  the  owner 
of  that  splendid  residence. 

"  That  ?  "  asked  the  native,  pointing  to  the  great  house. 

"Yes,  my  good  fellow." 

"  Oh,  that  belongs  to  Monsieur  Vilquin,  the  richest  ship- 
owner of  the  place,  a  man  who  does  not  know  how  much  he 
has." 

"  I  know  of  no  Cardinal  Vilquin  in  history,"  said  the  ac- 
countant to  himself,  as  he  went  down  the  town  again,  to 
return  to  Paris. 

Of  course,  he  questioned  the  postmaster  as  to  the  Vilquin 
family.  He  learned  that  the  Vilquins  owned  an  immense 
fortune ;  that  Monsieur  Vilquin  had  a  son  and  two  daughters, 
one  of  them  married  to  young  Monsieur  Althor.  Prudence 
saved  la  Briere  from  showing  any  adverse  interest  in  the 
Vilquins ;  the  postmaster  was  already  looking  at  him  with 
suspicion. 

"  Is  there  no  one  at  the  house  just  now  beside  the  family?" 
he  asked. 

"Just  at  present  the  Herouville  family  is  there.  There 
is  some  talk  of  a  marriage  between  the  young  Duke  and  the 
second  Mademoiselle  Vilquin." 

"  There  was  a  famous  Cardinal  d' Herouville,"  thought  la 
Briere,  "in  the  time  of  the  Valois;  and,  under  Henry  IV., 
the  terrible  marshal,  who  was  created  duke." 

Ernest  returned,  having  seen  enough  of  Modeste  to  dream 


72  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

of  her ;  to  believe  that,  rich  or  poor,  if  she  had  a  noble  soul, 
he  would  gladly  and  unhesitatingly  make  her  Madame  la  Briere, 
and  he,  therefore,  determined  to  still  carry  on  the  corre- 
spondence. 

Do  your  utmost,  hapless  Frenchwomen,  to  remain  un- 
known, to  weave  the  very  least  little  romance  in  the  midst  of 
civilization  which  takes  note  on  public  squares  of  the  hour 
when  every  hackney  cab  comes  and  goes,  which  counts  every 
letter  and  stamps  them  twice  at  the  exact  hours  when  they 
are  posted  and  when  they  are  delivered,  which  numbers  the 
houses,  which  registers  each  floor  on  the  schedule  of  taxes, 
after  making  a  list  of  the  windows  and  doors,  which  ere  long 
will  have  every  acre  of  land,  down  to  the  smallest  holdings 
and  its  most  trifling  details,  laid  down  on  the  broad  sheets  of 
a  survey — a  giant's  task,  by  command  of  a  giant !  Try,  rash 
maidens,  to  evade — not,  indeed,  the  eye  of  the  police,  but 
the  ceaseless  gossip  which,  in  the  poorest  hamlet,  scrutinizes 
your  most  trivial  acts,  counts  the  dishes  at  the  prefet's  dessert, 
and  sees  the  melon-rind  outside  the  door  of  the  small  annui- 
tant, which  tries  to  hear  the  chink  of  gold  when  Economy 
adds  it  to  her  treasury,  and  every  evening,  over  the  fire,  sums 
up  the  incomes  of  the  village,  of  the  town,  of  the  depart- 
ment ! 

Modeste,  by  a  commonplace  mistake,  had  escaped  the  most 
innocent  espionage,  for  which  Ernest  already  blamed  himself. 
But  what  Parisian  could  endure  to  be  the  dupe  of  a  little 
country  girl  ?  Never  be  duped  !  This  odious  maxim  is  a 
solvent  for  all  man's  noble  sentiments.  From  the  letter  he 
wrote,  where  every  lash  of  the  scourge  of  conscience  has  left 
its  mark,  the  reader  may  easily  imagine  the  conflict  of  feelings 
to  which  the  honest  youth  was  a  prey. 

A  few  days  later,  Modeste,  sitting  at  her  window  on  a  fine 
summer  day,  read  the  following  pages : 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  73 

VI. 

To  Mademoiselle  O.  d'  Esie-M. 

"  MADEMOISELLE  :— Without  hypocrisy,  yes,  if  I  had  been 
sure  that  you  had  an  immense  fortune,  I  should  have  acted 
quite  differently.  Why  ?  I  have  sought  the  reason,  and  it  is 
this  :  There  is  in  us  an  inborn  feeling,  developed,  too,  to  an 
extreme  by  society,  which  urges  us  to  seek  and  to  seize  hap- 
piness. Most  men  confound  happiness  with  the  means  to 
happiness,  and  in  their  eyes  fortune  is  its  chief  element.  I 
should  therefore  have  endeavored  to  please  you,  spurred  by 
the  social  instinct  that  has  in  all  ages  made  wealth  a  religion. 
At  least,  I  think  so.  The  wisdom  which  substitutes  good 
sense  for  impulse  is  not  to  be  looked  for  in  a  man  who  is  still 
young;  and  when  the  prey  is  in  sight,  the  animal  instinct 
lurking  in  the  heart  of  man  urges  him  on.  Thus,  instead  of 
a  lecture,  I  should  have  sent  you  compliments  and  flattery. 

"  Should  I  have  respected  myself?  I  doubt  it.  Made- 
moiselle, in  such  a  case,  success  brings  absolution ;  but  as  to 
happiness,  that  is  another  matter.  Should  I  not  distrust  my 
wife  if  I  won  her  thus  ?  Most  certainly.  Your  action  would, 
sooner  or  later,  have  resumed  its  true  character ;  your  hus- 
band, however  great  you  might  deem  him,  would  at  last  have 
reproached  you  for  having  humiliated  him ;  and  you,  sooner 
or  later,  might  have  learned  to  despise  him.  An  ordinary 
man  cuts  the  gordian  knot  of  a  marriage  for  money  with  the 
sword  of  tyranny.  A  strong  man  forgives.  The  poet  be- 
wails himself.  This,  mademoiselle,  is  the  answer  given  by 
my  honesty. 

"  Now,  attend  to  me  well.  Yours  is  the  triumph  of  having 
made  me  reflect  deeply,  both  on  you,  whom  I  know  not 
enough,  and  on  myself,  whom  I  know  but  little.  You  have 
had  the  skill  to  stir  up  the  evil  thoughts  that  grovel  at  the 


74  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

bottom  of  every  heart ;  but  in  me  the  outcome  has  been  a 
generous  something,  and  I  hail  you  with  my  most  grateful 
blessings,  as,  at  sea,  we  hail  a  lighthouse  varning  us  of  rocks 
where  we  might  have  been  wrecked. 

"  And  now  for  my  confession,  for  I  would  not  lose  your 
esteem  nor  my  own  for  the  price  of  all  the  treasures  on  earth. 
I  was  bent  on  knowing  who  you  were.  I  have  just  come  back 
from  le  Havre,  where  I  saw  Francoise  Cochet,  followed  her  to 
Ingouville,  and  saw  you  in  your  magnificent  villa.  You  are 
as  lovely  as  a  poet's  dream  of  woman  ;  but  I  know  not  whether 
you  are  Mademoiselle  Vilquin  hidden  under  Mademoiselle 
d'H6rouville,  or  Mademoiselle  d'  Herouville  hidden  under 
Mademoiselle  Vilquin.  Though  all  is  fair  in  war,  I  blush  at 
playing  the  spy,  and  I  paused  in  my  investigations.  You 
piqued  my  curiosity ;  owe  me  no  grudge  for  having  been  so 
womanly,  is  it  not  a  poet's  privilege  ?  Now  I  have  opened 
my  heart  to  you ;  I  have  let  you  read  it ;  you  may  believe  in 
the  sincerity  of  what  I  am  about  to  add.  Brief  as  was  the 
glimpse  I  had  of  you,  it  was  enough  to  modify  my  opinion. 
You  are  a  poet  and  a  poem  even  before  being  a  woman.  Yes, 
there  is  in  you  something  more  precious  than  beauty ;  you 
are  the  ideal  of  art,  of  fancy. 

"The  step  you  took,  blamable  in  a  young  girl  fated  to  a 
commonplace  existence,  is  different  in  one  gifted  with  such  a 
character  as  I  suppose  you  to  have.  Among  the  vast  number 
of  beings  flung  by  chance  into  social  life  to  make  up  a 
generation,  there  are  exceptions.  If  your  letter  is  the  outcome 
of  long  political  musing  on  the  lot  which  the  law  reserves  for 
women ;  if,  carried  away  by  the  vocation  of  a  superior  and 
cultivated  mind,  you  have  wished  to  know  something  of  the 
intimate  life  of  a  man  to  whom  you  concede  the  chance  en- 
dowment of  genius,  in  order  to  create  a  friendship  with  a 
soul  akin  to  your  own,  exempt  from  vulgar  conditions,  and 
evading  all  the  limitations  of  your  sex — you  are,  indeed,  an 
exception  !  The  law  which  is  good  to  measure  the  actions 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  75 

of  the  crowd  is  then  very  narrow  to  qualify  your  determi- 
nation. But  then  the  words  of  my  first  letter  recur  in  all 
their  meaning,  <  You  have  done  too  much  or  not  enough.' 

"Once  more  accept  my  thanks  for  the  service  you  have 
done  me  in  compelling  me  to  probe  my  heart;  for  you 
have  cured  me  of  the  error,  common  enough  in  France,  of 
regarding  marriage  as  a  means  to  fortune.  In  the  midst  of 
the  disturbance  of  my  conscience  a  sacred  voice  has  spoken. 
I  have  solemnly  sworn  to  myself  to  make  my  own  fortune, 
that  my  choice  of  a  wife  may  never  be  determined  by  mer- 
cenary motives.  Finally,  I  have  blamed  and  repressed  the 
unbecoming  curiosity  you  aroused  in  me.  You  have  not  six 
millions.  It  would  be  impossible  at  le  Havre  that  a  young 
lady  possessed  of  such  a  fortune  should  remain  unknown, 
and  you  would  have  been  betrayed  by  the  pack  of  those 
aristocratic  families  which  I  see  in  pursuit  of  heiresses  here 
in  Paris,  and  which  has  sent  the  King's  chief  equerry  on  a 
visit  to  your  Vilquins.  So  the  sentiments  I  express  are  put 
forward  as  a  positive  rule,  apart  from  all  romance  or  state- 
ment of  fact. 

"  Now,  prove  to  me  that  you  have  one  of  those  souls  which 
we  allow  to  disobey  the  common  law,  and  you  will  grant  in 
your  mind  that  this  second  letter  is  in  the  right  as  well  as 
the  first.  You  are  destined  to  a  middle-class  life ;  obey  the 
iron  law  that  holds  society  together.  You  are  a  superior 
woman,  and  I  admire  you ;  but  if  you  are  bent  on  yielding 
to  the  instinct  you  ought  to  repress,  I  pity  you ;  these  are  the 
conditions  of  the  social  state.  The  admirable  moral  of  the 
domestic  epic  '  Clarissa  Harlowe '  is  that  the  victim's  love, 
though  legitimate  and  sincere,  leads  to  her  ruin,  because  it 
has  its  rise  and  progress  in  defiance  of  her  family.  The  family, 
silly  and  cruel  as  it  is,  is  in  its  rights  as  against  Lovelace. 
The  family  is  society. 

"  Believe  me,  for  a  girl,  as  for  a  wife,  her  glory 'will  always 
consist  in  restraining  her  ardent  whims  within  the  strictest 


76  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

limits  of  propriety.  If  I  had  a  daughter  who  might  become 
a  Madame  de  Stael,  I  would  wish  that  she  might  die  at  fifteen. 
Can  you  think,  without  the  acutest  regret,  of  your  own  child 
exhibited  on  the  stage  of  celebrity  and  parading  to  win  the 
applause  of  the  mob?  However  high  a  woman  may  have 
raised  herself  in  the  secret  poetry  of  her  dreams,  she  must 
sacrifice  her  superiority  on  the  altar  of  family  life.  Her  soar- 
ing moods,  her  genius,  her  aspirations  toward  the  lofty  and 
the  sublime,  all  the  poem  of  a  girl's  soul  belongs  to  the  man 
she  accepts,  the  children  she  may  bear.  I  discern  in  you  a 
secret  ambition  to  enlarge  the  narrow  circle  of  life  to  which 
every  woman  is  condemned,  and  to  bring  passion  and  love 
into  your  marriage.  Ah  !  it  is  a  beautiful  dream ;  it  is  not 
impossible ;  it  is  difficult ;  but  it  has  been  realized  to  bring 
incompatible  souls — forgive  me  a  word  which  has  become 
ridiculous — to  desperation. 

"  If  you  look  for  a  sort  of  Platonic  regard,  it  can  only  lead 
you  to  despair  in  the  future.  If  your  letter  was  a  sport,  play 
no  more.  And  so  this  little  romance  ends,  does  it  not  ?  It 
will  not  have  been  altogether  barren  of  fruit ;  my  honesty  has 
taken  up  arms  ;  and  you,  on  your  part,  have  learned  some- 
thing certain  about  social  life.  Turn  your  gaze  on  real  life, 
and  throw  the  transient  enthusiasm  to  which  literature  has 
given  birth  into  the  virtues  of  your  sex.  Farewell,  mademoi- 
selle ;  do  me  the  honor  of  granting  me  your  esteem.  Since 
seeing  you — or  her  whom  I  believe  to  be  you — your  letter  has 
seemed  to  me  quite  natural ;  so  fair  a  flower  would  instinct- 
ively turn  toward  the  sun  of  poetry.  So  love  poetry  still,  as 
you  doubtless  love  flowers  and  music,  the  sumptuous  grandeur 
of  the  sea,  the  beauties  of  Nature — all  as  ornaments  of  the 
soul ;  but  remember  all  I  have  had  the  honor  of  telling  you 
about  poets.  Be  sure  you  do  not  marry  an  ass ;  seek  with 
care  for  the  mate  God  has  created  for  you.  There  are,  take 
my  word  for  it,  many  clever  men  capable  of  appreciating  you 
and  of  making  you  happy.  If  I  were  rich,  and  you  were 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  77 

poor,  I  would  some  day  lay  my  fortune  and  my  heart  at  your 
feet,  for  I  surely  believe  that  you  have  a  soul  full  of  riches  and 
of  loyalty ;  and  I  would  intrust  you  with  my  life  and  honor 
in  the  fullest  confidence.  Once  more  farewell,  fair  daughter 
of  fair  Eve." 

On  reading  this  letter — at  one  gulp,  like  a  drink  of  cold 
water  in  a  desert — the  mountain  weighing  on  Modeste's  heart 
was  lifted  ;  then,  perceiving  the  mistakes  she  had  made  in 
carrying  out  her  scheme,  she  corrected  them  at  once  by 
making  some  wrappers  for  Francoise,  on  which  she  wrote  her 
own  address  at  Ingouville,  desiring  her  to  come  no  more  to 
the  chalet.  Thenceforth  Francoise  was  to  go  home,  place 
each  letter  as  it  came  from  Paris  in  one  of  these  wrappers, 
and  privily  repost  it  in  the  town.  Modeste  promised  herself 
always  to  meet  the  postman,  standing  at  the  front  door  at  the 
hour  when  he  should  pass. 

As  to  the  feelings  excited  in  Modeste  by  this  reply,  in  which 
poor  la  Briere's  noble  heart  throbbed  under  the  brilliant  mask 
of  Canalis,  they  were  as  infinite  as  the  waves  which  rolled  up 
to  die  one  after  another  on  the  shore,  while,  with  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  ocean,  she  gave  herself  up  to  the  joy  of  having 
harpooned  an  angel's  soul,  so  to  speak,  in  the  sea  of  Paris,  of 
having  discerned  that  in  a  really  superior  man  the  heart  may 
sometimes  be  on  a  par  with  genius,  and  of  having  been  well 
advised  by  the  voice  of  presentiment.  A  mastering  interest 
would  henceforth  inspire  her  life.  The  enclosure  of  her 
pretty  home,  the  wires  of  her  cage  were  broken.  Thought 
could  soar  on  widespread  wings. 

"  Oh,  dear  father,"  she  cried,  looking  across  to  the  horizon, 
"  make  us  very  rich  !  " 

Her  answer,  which  Ernest  de  la  Briere  read  five  days  later, 
will  tell  more  than  any  comments  can  the  feelings  of  her  mind 
at  this  time : 


78  MODESTE   MIGNON. 

VII. 

To  Monsieur  de   Canalis. 

"  MY  FRIEND  : — Let  me  call  you  so — you  have  enchanted 
me,  and  I  would  not  have  you  other  than  you  are  in  this 
letter — the  first ;  oh,  let  it  not  be  the  last !  Who  but  a  poet 
could  ever  have  so  perfectly  excused  and  understood  a  girl  ? 

"I  wish  to  speak  to  you  with  the  same  sincerity  as  that 
which  dictated  the  opening  lines  of  your  letter. 

"  In  the  first  place,  happily,  you  do  not  know  me.  I  can 
tell  you,  gladly,  that  I  am  neither  that  frightful  Mademoiselle 
Vilquin  nor  that  most  noble  and  most  faded  Mademoiselle 
d'Herouville,  who  hovers  between  thirty  and  fifty,  and  cannot 
make  up  her  mind  to  a  creditable  age.  Cardinal  d'Herou- 
ville flourished  in  church  history  before  the  cardinal  who  is 
our  only  pride,  for  I  do  not  count  lieutenant-generals,  or 
abbes  who  write  small  volumes  of  too  big  verse,  as  celebrities. 

"  Also,  I  do  not  live  in  the  Vilquins'  gorgeous  villa ;  thank 
God,  not  the  millionth  part  of  a  drop  of  their  blood,  chilled 
in  many  a  counting-house,  flows  in  my  veins.  I  am  by  birth 
partly  German,  partly  a  child  of  Southern  France ;  in  my 
brain  lurks  Teutonic  sentiment,  and  in  my  blood  the  energy 
of  the  Provencal.  I  am  of  noble  birth  both  on  my  father's 
and  my  mother's  side;  through  my  mother  I  have  connections 
on  every  page  of  the  'Almanach  de  Gotha.'  But  I  have 
taken  every  precaution  ;  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  any  man, 
not  even  of  the  police,  to  lift  my  disguise.  I  shall  remain 
shrouded,  unknown.  As  to  myself  and  my  belongings,  mes 
propres,  as  they  say  in  Normandy,  be  quite  easy  ;  I  am  at 
least  as  good-looking  as  the  little  person — happy,  though  she 
knows  it  not — on  whom  your  eyes  fell  ;  and  I  do  not  think 
myself  a  pauper,  though  I  am  not  attended  in  my  walks 
by  ten  sons  of  peers !  I  have  even  seen  the  contemptible 


MODESTE   MIGNON.  79 

farce  played  in  my  behoof  of  the  heiress  adored  for  her 
millions. 

"Finally,  make  no  attempt  to  find  me,  not  even  to  win  a 
bet.  Alas  !  though  free,  I  am  guarded ;  in  the  first  place,  by 
myself,  and  then  by  brave  folk,  who  would  not  hesitate  to 
stick  a  knife  in  your  heart  if  you  tried  to  penetrate  this  re- 
treat. I  say  this,  not  to  incite  your  courage  or  your  curiosity ; 
I  believe  no  such  sentiments  are  needed  to  arouse  your  inter- 
est in  me  or  to  secure  your  attachment. 

"  I  now  proceed  to  reply  to  the  second  and  greatly  enlarged 
edition  of  your  sermon : 

"Shall  I  make  a  confession?  When  I  found  you  so  sus- 
picious, taking  me  for  a  Corinne — how  her  improvisations 
have  bored  me ! — I  said  to  myself  that  many  a  tenth  Muse 
had,  ere  now,  led  you  by  the  tow-line  of  curiosity  into  her 
inmost  vales,  and  proposed  to  you  to  taste  the  fruits  of  her 
school-girl  Parnassus.  Be  quite  easy,  my  friend;  though  I 
love  poetry,  I  have  no  copies  of  verses  in  my  blotting-book; 
my  stockings  are,  and  will  remain,  perfectly  white.  You 
will  not  be  bored  by  any  '  trifles '  in  one  or  two  volumes.  In 
short,  if  I  should  ever  say  to  you,  'Come,'  you  know  now 
that  you  will  not  find  an  old  maid,  ugly  and  penniless 

"  Oh  !  my  friend,  if  you  could  only  know  how  much  I 
regret  that  you  should  have  come  to  le  Havre !  You  have 
altered  the  aspect  of  what  you  call  my  romance.  God 
alone  can  weigh  in  His  Almighty  hands  the  treasure  I  had  in 
store  for  a  man  great  enough,  confiding  and  clear-sighted 
enough,  to  set  out  on  the  strength  of  my  letters,  after  having 
made  his  way  step  by  step  through  all  the  recesses  of  my 
heart,  and  to  come  to  our  first  meeting  with  the  guilelessness 
of  a  child  !  I  dreamed  of  such  innocence  in  a  genius ;  you 
have  marred  that  treasure.  I  forgive  you ;  you  live  in  Paris ; 
and,  as  you  say,  a  poet  is  a  man. 

"  Will  you,  therefore,  take  me  to  be  a  silly  school-girl,  cher- 
ishing the  enchanted  garden  of  illusions  ?  Nay,  do  not  amuse 


80  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

yourself  with  throwing  stones  at  the  broken  windows  of  a 
long-ruined  castle.  You,  a  man  of  wit,  how  is  it  that  you 
never  guessed  that  Mademoiselle  d'Este  had  already  read  her- 
self the  lecture  contained  in  your  first  letter  ?  No,  my  dear 
poet,  my  first  note  was  a  pebble  flung  by  a  boy  loitering  along 
the  highway,  who  thinks  it  fun  to  startle  a  landowner  reading 
his  tax-paper  under  shelter  of  his  fruit  trees ;  or,  rather,  was 
the  line  carefully  fixed  by  a  fisherman  from  the  top  of  a  rock 
by  the  seashore,  in  hope  of  a  miraculous  draught. 

"  All  you  say  so  beautifully  about  family  ties  has  my  appro- 
bation. The  man  I  shall  love,  and  of  whom  I  shall  think 
myself  worthy,  shall  have  my  heart  and  my  life  with  my 
parents'  consent.  I  would  neither  distress  nor  startle  them ; 
I  am  certain  of  overruling  them,  and  they  have  no  prejudices. 
Again,  I  am  strong  enough  to  defy  the  illusions  of  my  fancy. 
I  have  built  a  stronghold  with  my  own  hands,  and  have 
allowed  it  to  be  fortified  by  the  unbounded  devotion  of  those 
who  watch  over  me  as  a  treasure — not  that  I  am  not  strong 
enough  to  defend  myself  in  open  fight ;  for,  I  may  tell  you, 
fate  has  clothed  me  in  well-tempered  armor  on  which  is 
stamped  the  word  DISDAIN.  I  have  the  deepest  horror  of 
everything  which  suggests  self-interest,  of  all  that  is  not  en- 
tirely noble,  pure,  and  disinterested.  Without  being  romantic, 
I  worship  the  beautiful  and  the  ideal;  though  I  have  been 
romantic,  all  to  myself,  in  my  dreams.  And  so  I  could  recog- 
nize the  truth — true  even  to  platitude — of  what  you  wrote  me 
as  to  social  life. 

"  For  the  present,  we  are  only,  and  can  only  be,  friends. 
Why  seek  a  friend  among  the  unknown  ?  you  will  ask.  Your 
person  is  unknown  to  me  ;  but  your  mind  and  heart  are  known 
to  me ;  I  like  them,  and  I  am  conscious  of  infinite  feelings  in 
my  soul,  which  demand  a  man  of  genius  as  their  only  confi- 
dant. I  do  not  want  the  poem  of  my  heart  to  be  wasted ;  it 
shall  be  as  beautiful  for  you  as  it  would  have  been  for  God 
alone.  What  a  precious  thing  is  a  trusty  comrade  to  whom 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  gj 

we  may  say  what  we  will !  Can  you  reject  the  unspoiled  blos- 
soms of  a  genuine  girl  ?  They  will  fly  to  you  as  gnats  fly  to 
the  sunbeams.  I  am  sure  that  your  intellect  has  never  before 
won  you  such  a  success — the  confidences  of  a  young  girl. 
Listen  to  her  prattle,  accept  the  songs  she  has  hitherto  sung 
only  for  herself. 

"By-and-by,  if  our  souls  are  really  akin,  if  on  trial  our 
characters  agree,  some  day  an  old  white-haired  retainer  will 
await  you,  standing  by  the  roadside,  and  conduct  you  to  a 
chalet,  a  villa,  a  castle,  a  palace — I  do  not  yet  know  of  what 
type  that  temple  of  Hymen  may  be — brown  and  gold,  the 
colors  of  Austria,  which  marriage  has  made  so  powerful — nor 
whether  such  a  conclusion  may  be  possible ;  but  confess  that 
it  is  poetical,  and  that  Mademoiselle  d'Este  has  good  ideas. 
Does  she  not  leave  you  free  ?  Does  she  come  on  jealous  tip- 
toe to  glance  round  Paris  drawing-rooms  ?  Does  she  lay  on 
you  the  task  of  some  high  emprise,  the  chains  which  paladins 
of  old  voluntarily  hung  on  their  arm  ?  What  she  asks  of  you 
is  a  really  spiritual  and  mystical  alliance. 

"  Come,  come  to  my  heart  whenever  you  are  unhappy, 
wounded,  weary.  Tell  me  everything,  conceal  nothing;  I 
shall  have  balm  for  all  your  sorrows.  I,  my  friend,  am  but 
twenty  ;  but  my  mind  is  fifty,  and  I  have  unhappily  known 
through  another,  my  second  self,  the  horrors  and  ecstasies  of 
passion.  I  know  all  that  the  human  heart  can  possibly  con- 
tain of  meanness  and  infamy,  and  yet  I  am  the  most  honest 
girl  living.  No  ;  I  have  no  illusions  left ;  but  I  have  some- 
thing better — faith  and  religion.  There,  I  have  played  first 
in  our  game  of  confidences. 

"  Whoever  my  husband  may  be,  if  he  is  my  own  choice, 
he  may  sleep  in  peace ;  he  might  sail  for  the  Indies,  and  on 
his  return  he  would  find  me  finishing  the  tapestry  begun  at 
his  departure ;  no  eyes  would  have  looked  into  mine,  no 
man's  voice  would  have  tainted  the  air  in  my  ear ;  in  every 
stitch  he  might  find  a  line  of  the  poem  of  which  he  was  the 
6 


82  MODESTE   MIGNON. 

hero.  Even  if  I  should  have  been  taken  in  by  a  fair  and 
false  exterior,  that  man  would  have  every  flower  of  my 
thought,  every  refinement  of  my  tenderness,  all  the  wordless 
sacrifices  of  proud  and  never  suppliant  resignation.  Yes,  I 
have  vowed  to  myself  never  even  to  go  out  with  my  husband 
when  he  does  not  want  me ;  I  will  be  the  divinity  of  his 
hearth.  This  is  my  human  religion.  But  why  should  I  not 
test  and  choose  the  man  to  whom  I  shall  be  what  life  is  to  the 
body?  Does  a  man  ever  find  life  an  inconvenience?  What 
is  a  wife  who  annoys  her  husband?  Not  life,  but  a  sickness. 
By  life,  I  mean  the  perfect  health  which  makes  every  hour  an 
enjoyment. 

"To  return  to  your  letter,  which  will  always  be  dear  to 
me.  Yes,  jesting  apart,  it  really  contains  what  I  had  hoped 
for — the  expression  of  prosaic  sentiments,  which  are  as  neces- 
sary to  family  life  as  air  is  to  the  lungs,  and  without  which 
happiness  is  out  of  the  question.  What  I  hoped  for  in  my 
friend  was  that  he  should  act  as  an  honest  man,  think  as  a 
poet,  love  as  women  love ;  and  this  is  now,  beyond  a  doubt, 
no  longer  a  chimera. 

"Farewell,  my  friend.  At  present  I  am  poor.  That  is 
one  of  the  reasons  which  makes  me  cling  to  my  mask,  my 
incognito,  my  impenetrable  fortress. 

"I  read  your  last  poem  in  the  'Revue,'  and  with  what 
delight,  after  having  mastered  the  austere  and  secret  loftiness 
of  your  soul ! 

"  Will  it  aggrieve  you  greatly  to  be  told  that  a  girl  be- 
seeches God  fervently  in  your  behalf,  that  she  makes  you  her 
one  thought,  and  that  you  have  no  rival  in  her  heart  but  her 
father  and  mother  ?  Can  there  be  any  reason  why  you  should 
reject  these  pages  that  are  full  of  you,  that  are  written  for 
you,  that  none  but  you  will  read  ?  Repay  me  in  kind.  I  am 
as  yet  so  little  a  woman  that  your  effusions,  so  long  as  they 
are  genuine  and  full,  will  suffice  for  the  happiness  of  your 

"O.  D'ESTE-M." 


MODES  TE  MIGNON.  83 

"Great  heavens!  am  I  in  love  with  her  already?"  ex- 
claimed the  young  referendary,  when  he  discovered  that  he 
had  been  sitting  for  an  hour  with  this  letter  in  his  hand,  after 
having  read  it.  "  What  must  I  do  next  ?  She  believes  she 
is  writing  to  our  great  poet.  Ought  I  to  carry  on  the  decep- 
tion ?  Is  she  a  woman  of  forty  or  a  girl  of  twenty  ?  " 

Ernest  was  fascinated  by  the  abyss  of  the  unknown.  The 
unknown  is  dark  infinitude,  and  nothing  is  more  enthralling. 
From  that  murky  vastness  flash  fires  which  rend  it  from  time 
to  time,  and  light  up  visions  like  those  of  Martin.  In  a  life 
as  full  as  that  of  Canalis,  an  adventure  of  this  kind  is  swept 
away  like  a  cornflower  among  the  boulders  of  a  torrent ;  in  that 
of  a  young  referendary  awaiting  «the  reinstatement  in  power 
of  the  party  of  which  his  patron  was  the  representative,  and 
who,  as  a  precaution,  was  dry-nursing  Canalis  for  parliament, 
this  pretty  girl — his  imagination  persistently  believed  her  to 
be  the  fair-haired  damsel  he  had  seen — was  bound  to  find  a 
place  in  his  heart,  and  commit  all  the  ravages  caused  by  a 
romance  when  it  breaks  into  a  humdrum  existence,  like  a  wolf 
into  a  farmyard.  So  Ernest  thought  a  great  deal  about  his 
unknown  correspondent,  and  he  replied  by  the  following  let- 
ter— an  elaborate  and  pretentious  letter,  but  already  betraying 
some  passion  by  its  tone  of  annoyance  : 


VIII. 
To  Mademoiselle  O.  <T  Este-M. 

"  MADEMOISELLE  : — Is  it  quite  fair  in  you  to  come  and 
establish  yourself  in  a  poor  poet's  heart  with  the  admitted 
purpose  of  leaving  him  to  his  fate  if  he  should  not  be  to  your 
mind,  and  bequeathing  to  him  perennial  regrets  after  showing 
him,  for  a  few  minutes,  an  image  of  perfection  were  it  but 
assumed,  or,  at  least,  a  first  promise  of  happiness? 

"  I  was  wanting  in  foresight  when  I  requested  the  letter  in 


84  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

which  you  have  begun  the  display  of  your  elegant  assortment 
of  ideas.  A  man  may  well  fall  in  love  with  a  stranger  who  can 
unite  so  much  daring  with  so  much  originality,  such  fancy 
with  such  feeling.  Who  but  would  long  to  know  you  after 
reading  these  first  confidences  ?  It  is  only  by  a  really  great 
effort  that  I  preserve  my  balance  when  I  think  of  you,  for  in 
you  are  combined  all  things  that  can  disturb  a  man's  heart 
and  brain.  So  I  take  advantage  of  the  remains  of  coolness  I 
am  able  to  preserve  to  put  the  case  humbly  before  you. 

"  Do  you  believe,  mademoiselle,  that  letters  which  are 
more  or  less  truthful  in  relation  to  life  as  it  really  is,  and 
more  or  less  insincere,  since  the  letters  we  may  write  to  each 
other  must  be  the  expression  of  the  moment  when  we  send 
them  forth,  and  not  the  general  outcome  of  our  characters 
— do  you  believe,  I  ask,  that,  however  fine  they  may  be, 
these  letters  can  ever  take  the  place  of  the  expression  of  our- 
selves we  should  give  through  the  practical  evidence  of  daily 
life  ?  Each  man  is  twofold.  There  is  the  invisible  life  of 
the  spirit,  which  letters  may  satisfy,  and  the  mechanical  life, 
to  which  we  attach,  alas  !  more  importance  than  you,  at  your 
age,  can  imagine.  These  two  existences  ought  both  to  agree 
with  the  ideal  you  cherish,  and  this,  it  may  be  said,  very 
rarely  happens. 

"  The  pure,  spontaneous,  disinterested  homage  of  a  solitary 
soul,  at  once  well-informed  and  chaste,  is  one  of  those  heav- 
enly flowers  whose  color  and  fragrance  are  a  consolation  for 
every  grief,  every  wound,  every  mortification  entailed  by  a 
literary  life  in  Paris  ;  and  I  thank  you  with  a  fervor  equal  to 
your  own  ;  but  after  this  poetical  exchange  of  my  woes  in  re- 
turn for  the  pearls  of  your  charity,  what  can  you  expect  ?  I 
have  neither  the  genius  nor  the  splendid  position  of  Lord 
Byron  ;  above  all,  I  have  not  the  halo  of  his  artificial  damna- 
tion and  his  imaginary  social  grievances ;  but  what  would  you 
have  hoped  for  from  him  in  similar  circumstances?  His 
friendship,  no  doubt.  Well,  he,  who  ought  only  to  have 


MODESTE   MIGNON.  85 

been  proud,  was  eaten  up  by  an  offensive  and  sickly  vanity 
which  discouraged  friendship.  I,  who  am  a  thousand  times 
less  great  than  he — may  not  I,  too,  have  such  discords  of  nature 
as  to  make  life  unpleasing,  and  turn  friendship  into  the  most 
difficult  burden?  What  will  you  get  in  return  for  your  dreams? 
The  vexations  of  a  life  which  will  not  be  wholly  yours. 

"  The  bargain  is  a  mad  one,  for  this  reason  :  The  poetry  of 
your  dreams  is  but  a  plagiarism.  A  young  German  girl,  not 
half-German,  like  you,  but  wholly  German,  in  the  intoxication 
of  her  twenty  years,  adored  Goethe ;  she  made  him  her  friend, 
her  religion,  her  god,  knowing  that  he  was  married.  Frau 
Goethe,  a  good  German  soul,  a  poet's  wife,  lent  herself  to 
this  worship  with  very  shrewd  complacency — which  failed  to 
cure  Bettina  !  But  what  was  the  end  ?  The  ecstatic  married 
some  substantial  worthy  German.  Between  ourselves  let  us 
confess  that  a  girl  who  should  have  made  herself  the  hand- 
maid of  a  genius,  who  should  have  raised  herself  to  his  level 
by  understanding  him,  and  have  adored  him  piously  till  her 
death — as  one  of  those  divine  figures  might  have  done  that 
painters  have  represented  on  the  doors  of  their  mystical 
shrines — and  who,  when  Germany  should  lose  Goethe,  would 
have  retired  to  some  wilderness  never  more  to  see  mankind — 
as  Lord  Bolingbroke's  lady  did — let  us  confess  that  this  girl 
would  have  lived  forever  in  the  poet's  glory  as  Mary  Magdalen 
does  in  the  blood-stained  triumph  of  the  Saviour. 

"  If  this  is  sublime,  what  do  you  say  to  the  converse  of  it? 

"  Being  neither  Lord  Byron  nor  Goethe,  but  merely  the 
writer  of  a  few  approved  poems,  I  cannot  claim  the  honors  of 
worship.  I  have  little  in  me  of  the  martyr.  I  have  a  heart,  but 
I  am  also  ambitious,  for  I  have  to  make  my  fortune,  and  I  am 
yet  young.  See  me  as  I  am.  The  King's  favor  and  the  pat- 
ronage of  his  ministers  afford  me  a  decent  maintenance ;  I 
have  all  the  habits  of  a  very  commonplace  man.  I  go  to 
evening  parties  exactly  like  the  first  fool  you  meet ;  but  my 
carriage-wheels  do  not  run,  as  the  present  times  require, 


86  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

on  ground  made  solid  under  me   by  securities  in  the  state 
funds. 

"  Though  I  am  not  rich,  I  have  not,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  distinction  conferred  by  a  garret,  by  neglected  work,  by 
\  glory  in  penury,  on  certain  men  of  greater  merit  than  mine ; 
for  instance,  on  d'Arthez. 

"What  prosaic  fifth  act  will  you  not  find  for  the  enchanted 
fancy  of  your  young  enthusiasm  ?  Let  it  rest  here.  If  I  have 
been  so  happy  as  to  seem  to  you  an  earthly  wonder,  you  will 
have  been  to  me  something  radiant  and  supernal,  like  a  star  that 
blazes  and  vanishes.  Let  nothing  tarnish  this  episode  in  our 
lives.  By  remaining  as  we  are,  I  may  love  you,  going  through 
one  of  those  mad  passions  which  break  down  every  obstacle  and 
light  fires  in  the  heart,  which  are  alarming  by  their  violence 
out  of  all  proportion  to  their  duration  ;  and,  supposing  that 
I  should  succeed  in  pleasing  you,  we  must  end  in  the  vulgarest 
way — marriage,  housekeeping,  and  children.  Oh,  Belise  and 
Henriette  Chrysale  in  one,  can  that  be  ?  So,  farewell. ' ' 


IX. 

To  Monsieur  dc  Canalis. 

"  MY  FRIEND  : — Your  letter  gave  me  as  much  pain  as 
pleasure.  Perhaps  we  may  soon  find  it  all  pleasure  to  read 
each  other's  letters.  Understand  me.  We  speak  to  God ; 
we  ask  of  Him  many  things  ;  He  remains  speechless.  Now,  I 
want  to  have  from  you  the  answers  God  never  gives  us.  Can- 
not such  a  friendship  as  that  of  Mademoiselle  de  Gournay  and 
Montaigne  be  repeated  ?  Have  you  not  known  the  household 
of  Sismonde  de  Sismondi,  at  Geneva,  the  most  touching 
home-life  ever  seen,  and  of  which  I  have  been  told — something 
like  that  of  the  Marchese  and  Marchesa  di  Pescara,  happy  even 
in  their  old  age  ?  Good  heavens  !  is  it  impossible  that  there 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  87 

should  be  two  harps,  which,  though  at  a  distance,  respond  to 
each  other  as  in  a  symphony,  and  vibrate  so  as  to  produce  de- 
licious harmony  ?  Man  alone,  in  all  creation,  is  at  once  the 
harp,  the  musician,  and  the  hearer. 

"Do  you  see  me  fretting  after  the  manner  of  ordinary 
women  ?  Do  I  not  know  that  you  go  into  society  and  see 
the  handsomest  and  cleverest  women  in  Paris?  Can  I  not 
imagine  that  one  of  those  sirens  might  embrace  you  in  her 
cold  scales,  and  that  it  is  she  who  has  sent  the  answer  that 
grieves  me  by  its  prosaic  reflections  ?  There  is,  my  friend, 
something  more  beautiful  than  these  flowers  of  Parisian 
blandishment ;  there  is  a  flower  that  grows  at  the  height 
of  those  Alpine  peaks  called  men  of  genius;  the  pride  of 
humanity,  which  they  fructify  by  shedding  on  it  the  clouds 
they  collect  with  their  heads  in  the  skies;  that  flower  I 
intend  to  cultivate  and  to  make  it  open,  for  its  wild,  sweet 
perfume  will  never  fail  us;  it  is  perennial. 

"  Do  me  the  honor  to  believe  that  in  me  there  is  noth- 
ing common.  If  I  had  been  Bettina — for  I  know  to  whom 
you  allude — I  would  never  have  been  Frau  von  Arnim; 
and  if  I  had  been  one  of  Lord  Byron's  loves,  I  should  at 
this  moment  be  in  a  convent.  You  have  touched  me  in  a 
sensitive  spot. 

"You  do  not  know  me;  you  will  know  me.  I  feel  in 
myself  a  sublime  something  which  may  be  spoken  of  with- 
out vanity.  God  has  implanted  in  my  soul  the  root  of 
that  hybrid  plant  I  have  mentioned  as  native  to  Alpine 
heights,  and  I  will  not  stick  it  in  a  flower-pot  at  my  window 
to  see  it  perish.  No,  that  gorgeous  and  unique  blossom,  full 
of  intoxicating  fragrance,  shall  not  be  dragged  through  the 
vulgarities  of  life ;  it  is  yours — yours  without  a  glance  having 
blighted  it,  yours  for  ever.  Yes,  dear  one,  yours  are  all  my 
thoughts,  even  the  most  secret,  the  most  mad  ;  yours  is  the 
heart  of  a  girl  without  reserve ;  yours  an  infinite  affection. 
If  I  do  not  like  you  personally,  I  shall  not  marry. 


88  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

"  I  can  live  the  life  of  the  heart,  the  life  of  your  mind,  of 
your  feelings ;  they  please  me,  and  I  shall  always  be,  as  I  am 
now,  your  friend.  There  is  beauty  of  nature  in  you,  and 
that  is  enough  for  me.  There  lies  my  life.  Do  not  disdain  a 
pretty  young  handmaiden  who,  for  her  part,  does  not  shrink 
from  the  idea  of  being  some  day  the  poet's  old  housekeeper, 
in  some  sort  his  housewife,  in  some  sort  his  commonsense, 
in  some  sort  his  wealth.  This  devoted  maid,  so  precious  in 
your  lives,  is  pure,  disinterested  Friendship,  to  whom  every- 
thing is  revealed ;  who  listens  sometimes  with  a  shake  of  the 
head,  and  who  sits  late,  spinning  by  the  light  of  the  lamp,  to 
be  at  hand  when  the  poet  comes  home,  soaked  by  the  rain  or 
out  of  sorts.  This  is  my  destiny  if  I  am  never  to  be  a  happy 
and  faithfully  attached  wife :  I  can  smile  on  one  as  on  the 
other. 

"And  do  not  suppose  that  France  will  be  deeply  aggrieved 
if  Mademoiselle  d'Este  does  not  give  her  two  or  three  chil- 
dren, or  refuses  even  to  be  a  Madame  Vilquin,  or  the  like. 
I,  for  my  part,  shall  never  be  an  old  maid.  I  shall  make  my- 
self a  motherhood  by  beneficence,  and  by  secretly  sharing 
the  existence  of  a  great  man,  to  whom  I  shall  dedicate  all  my 
thoughts  and  all  my  earthly  efforts.  I  have  the  utmost  horror 
of  the  commonplace.  If  I  should  be  free  and  rich — and  I 
know  I  am  young  and  handsome — I  will  never  become  the 
property  of  some  simpleton  under  the  excuse  of  his  being  the 
son  of  a  peer  of  France ;  nor  of  some  good-looking  man, 
who  would  be  the  woman  of  the  two ;  nor  of  any  man  who 
would  make  me  blush  twenty  times  a  day  at  the  thought  that 
I  was  his.  Be  quite  easy  on  that  score. 

"  My  father  adores  my  wishes  too  much  ever  to  contravene 
them.  If  my  poet  likes  me,  if  I  like  him,  the  glorious  palace 
of  our  love  will  be  built  so  high  that  it  will  be  absolutely  in- 
accessible to  misfortune.  I  am  an  eaglet ;  you  will  see  it  in 
my  eye.  I  will  not  repeat  what  I  have  already  told  you,  but 
I  put  it  into  fewer  words  when  I  assure  you  that  I  shall  be  of 


MODESTE  M1GNON.  gg 

all  women  the  most  glad  to  be  as  completely  the  captive  of 
love,  as  I  am  at  this  moment  of  my  father's  will. 

"  Come,  my  friend,  let  us  reduce  to  the  truth  of  romance 
what  has  come  upon  us  by  my  free-will. 

"A  girl  of  lively  imagination  shut  up  in  a  turret  is  dying 
to  run  about  in  a  park  which  only  her  eyes  can  explore ;  she 
invents  a  way  of  opening  her  bars,  she  springs  out  of  window, 
climbs  the  park  wall,  and  goes  off  to  sport  at  her  neighbor's. 

It  is  the  eternal  comedy ! Well,  that  girl  is  my  soul, 

the  neighboring  park  is  your  genius.  Is  it  not  most  natural  ? 
Was  a  neighbor  ever  heard  of  who  complained  of  his  trellis 
being  damaged  by  pretty  feet  ? 

"  So  much  for  the  poet ;  but  must  the  ultra-reasonable  hero 
of  Moliere's  comedies  have  reasons?  Here  are  plenty.  My 
dear  Geronte,  marriages  are  commonly  made  in  direct  oppo- 
sition to  commonsense.  A  family  makes  inquiries  as  to  a 
young  man.  If  this  Leandre,  provided  by  a  friendly  gossip, 
or  picked  up  in  a  ball-room,  has  robbed  no  one,  if  he  has  no 
visible  stain,  if  he  has  as  much  money  as  is  expected,  if  he 
has  come  from  college  or  has  had  a  legal  training,  thus  satis- 
fying the  usual  ideas  of  education,  he  is  allowed  to  call  on  a 
young  lady,  dressed  to  receive  him  from  the  moment  when 
she  gets  up,  instructed  by  her  mother  to  be  careful  of  what 
she  says,  and  enjoined  to  keep  anything  of  her  soul  or  heart 
from  being  read  in  her  countenance  by  assuming  a  set  smile, 
like  a  dancer  finishing  a  pirouette ;  she  is  armed  with  the 
most  positive  instructions  as  to  the  perils  of  showing  her  true 
character,  and  advised  not  to  appear  too  distressingly  know- 
ing. The  parents,  when  all  the  points  of  interest  are  satisfac- 
torily settled  between  them,  are  simple-minded  enough  to 
recommend  the  young  people  to  know  all  they  can  of  each 
other  during  the  few  moments  when  they  are  alone,  when 
they  talk  together,  when  they  walk  out — without  any  kind  of 
freedom,  for  they  know  that  they  are  tied  already.  Under 
such  conditions  a  man  dresses  his  mind  as  carefully  as  his 


90  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

person,  and  the  girl  on  her  side  does  the  same.  This  miser- 
able farce,  carried  on  with  gifts  of  flowers  and  jewels  and 
places  at  the  play,  is  what  is  called  courting  a  girl. 

"  This  is  what  I  rebel  against,  and  I  mean  to  make  legal 
marriage  the  outcome  of  a  long  marriage  of  souls.  In  all  a 
girl's  life  this  is  the  only  moment  when  she  needs  reflection, 
insight,  and  experience.  Her  liberty  and  happiness  are  at 
stake,  and  you  place  neither  the  dice  nor  the  box  in  her 
hands ;  she  bets  on  the  game ;  she  is  but  a  looker-on.  I  have 
the  right,  the  will,  and  the  power  to  work  out  my  own  woe, 
and  I  will  use  them — as  my  mother  did  when,  guided  by 
instinct,  she  married  the  most  generous,  devoted,  and  loving 
of  men,  who  bewitched  her  one  evening  by  his  beauty.  I 
know  you  to  be  single,  a  poet,  and  handsome.  You  may  be 
sure  that  I  never  should  have  chosen  for  my  confidant  one  of 
your  brethren  in  Apollo  who  was  married.  If  my  mother 
was  attracted  by  a  handsome  face,  which  is  perhaps  the  genius 
of  form,  why  should  not  I  be  attracted  by  mind  and  form 
combined  ?  Shall  I  know  you  better  after  studying  you  by 
correspondence  than  after  beginning  by  the  vulgar  method 
of  so  many  months  of  courting?  '  That  is  the  question,'  saith 
Hamlet. 

"  My  plan,  my  dear  Chrysale,  has  at  least  the  advantage 
of  not  compromising  our  persons.  I  know  that  love  has  its 
illusions,  and  every  illusion  has  its  morrow.  Therein  lies  the 
reason  why  so  many  lovers  part  who  believed  themselves 
bound  for  life.  The  true  test  lies  in  suffering  and  in  happi- 
ness. When,  after  standing  this  double  test  of  life,  two  beings 
have  shown  all  their  faults  and  good  qualities,  and  have  learned 
each  other's  characters,  they  may  go  to  the  tomb  hand  in 
hand ;  but,  my  dear  Argante,  who  tells  you  that  our  little 

drama  has  no  future  before  it  ? And,  at  any  rate,  shall 

we  not  have  had  the  pleasure  of  our  correspondence  ? 

"  I  await  your  commands,  monseigneur,  and  remain,  with 
all  my  heart,  yours  obediently,  O.  D'EsxE-M." 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  91 

X. 

To  Mademoiselle  O.  d*  Este-M. 

"  You  are  a  demon  !  I  love  you.  Is  that  what  you  want, 
extraordinary  girl  ?  Perhaps  you  only  wish  to  divert  your 
leisure  in  the  country  by  looking  on  at  the  follies  of  which  a 
poet  is  capable  ?  That  would  be  a  very  wicked  thing.  Your 
two  letters  betray  just  enough  of  mischief  to  suggest  the 
doubt  to  a  Parisian.  But  I  am  no  longer  master  of  myself; 
my  life  and  future  hang  on  the  answer  you  may  send  me. 
Tell  me  whether  the  certain  possession  of  an  unbounded  affec- 
tion given  to  you,  in  defiance  of  social  conventionalities,  can 
touch  you ;  if  you  will  allow  me  to  visit  you  ?  There  will 
still  be  ample  room  for  doubt  and  agony  of  mind  in  the 
question  whether  I  shall  personally  be  agreeable  to  you.  If 
your  answer  is  favorable,  I  alter  my  life,  and  bid  adieu  to 
many  vexations  which  we  are  so  foolish  as  to  call  happiness. 

"  Happiness,  my  dear,  beautiful,  unknown  one,  is  what  you 
have  dreamed  it ;  a  perfect  fusion  of  feelings,  an  absolute 
harmony  of  souls,  a  keen  sense  of  ideal  beauty — so  far  as  God 
vouchsafes  it  to  us  here  below — stamped  on  the  common 
actions  of  a  life  whose  round  we  are  bound  to  follow ;  above 
all  constancy  of  heart,  far  more  precious  than  what  we  call 
fidelity.  Can  anything  be  called  a  sacrifice  when  the  end  is 
the  supremest  good,  the  dream  of  poets  and  of  maidens,  the 
poem  to  which  on  entering  life — as  soon  as  the  spirit  tries  its 
wings — every  lofty  mind  looks  up  with  longing,  brooding 
eyes,  only  to  see  it  dashed  to  pieces  against  a  stumbling-stone 
as  hard  as  it  is  vulgar ;  for  almost  every  man  sees  the  foot  of 
reality  set  down  at  once  on  that  mysterious  egg  which  hardly 
ever  hatches  out  ? 

"  I  will  not  as  yet  tell  you  of  myself,  of  my  past,  of  my 
character,  nor  of  an  affection— almost  motherly  on  one  side, 


92  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

and  on  mine  almost  filial — in  which  you  have  already  wrought 
a  change  with  results  in  my  life  that  may  explain  the  word 
sacrifice.  You  have  made  me  forgetful,  not  to  say  ungrateful. 
Is  that  enough  to  satisfy  you  ?  Oh  !  speak  !  Say  one  word, 
and  I  shall  love  you  till  my  eyes  are  closed  in  death,  as  Pes- 
cara  loved  his  wife,  as  Romeo  loved  his  Juliet,  and  as  faith- 
fully. Our  life — mine,  at  any  rate — will  be  that  untroubled 
happiness  of  which  Dante  speaks  as  being  the  atmosphere  of 
his  '  Paradiso  ' — a  poem  infinitely  superior  to  his  '  Inferno.' 

"  Strange  to  say,  it  is  not  myself,  but  you,  whom  I  doubt 
in  the  long  meditations  in  which  I  have  allowed  myself — like 
you,  perhaps — to  follow  the  chimerical  course  of  a  dream- 
life.  Yes,  dear  one,  I  feel  in  me  the  strength  to  love  thus,  to 
go  on  my  way  to  the  tomb  gently,  slowly,  always  smiling, 
arm  in  arm  with  the  woman  I  love,  without  a  cloud  on  the 
fair  weather  of  my  soul.  Yes,  I  have  courage  enough  to  look 
forward  to  our  old  age  together,  to  see  us  both  with  white 
hair,  like  the  venerable  historian  of  Italy,  still  inspired  by  the 
same  affection,  but  changed  by  the  spirit  of  each  season. 

"  You  see,  I  can  no  longer  be  no  more  than  your  friend. 
Though  Chrysale,  Oronte,  and  Argante,  you  say,  have  come 
to  life  again  in  me,  I  am  not  yet  so  senile  as  to  drink  of  a  cup 
held  by  the  fair  hands  of  a  veiled  woman  without  feeling  a 
fierce  desire  to  tear  away  the  domino,  the  mask,  and  to  see 
her  face.  Either  write  no  more  or  give  me  hope.  I  must 
have  a  glimpse  of  you,  or  throw  up  the  game.  Must  I  say 
farewell  ?  Will  you  allow  me  to  sign  myself, 

"YouR  FRIEND?" 

XI. 

To  Monsieur  de  Canalis. 

"  What  flattery  !  How  quickly  has  grave  Anselme  turned 
into  a  dashing  Leandre  !  To  what  am  I  to  ascribe  such  a 


MODESTE  MIGNON,  93 

change?  Is  it  to  the  black  I  have  scribbled  on  white,  to  the 
ideas  which  are  to  the  flowers  of  my  soul  what  a  rose  drawn 
in  black-lead  pencil  is  to  the  roses  of  the  garden  ?  Or  to  the 
remembrance  of  the  girl  you  took  for  me,  who  is  to  my  real 
self  what  a  waiting-maid  is  to  her  mistress  ?  Have  we  ex- 
changed parts?  Am  I  reason,  and  are  you  folly? 

"  A  truce  to  this  nonsense.  Your  letter  made  me  acquainted 
with  intoxicating  joys  of  soul,  the  first  I  have  not  owed  to 
family  feelings.  What,  a  poet  has  asked,  are  the  ties  of  blood 
which  weigh  so  heavily  on  ordinary  souls  in  comparison  with 
those  which  heaven  forges  for  us  of  mysterious  sympathies? 
Let  me  thank  you — no,  there  are  no  thanks  for  such  things. 
Blessings  on  you  for  the  happiness  you  have  given  me ;  may 
you  be  happy  with  the  gladness  you  poured  into  my  soul. 

"You  have  explained  to  me  some  apparent  injustice  in 
social  life.  There  is  something  brilliant  in  glory,  something 
masculine  which  becomes  men  alone,  and  God  has  prohibited 
women  from  wearing  this  halo  while  giving  us  love  and 
tenderness  with  which  to  refresh  the  brows  on  which  its  awful 
light  rests.  I  feel  my  mission,  or,  rather,  you  have  confirmed 
me  in  it. 

"  Sometimes,  my  friend,  I  have  risen  in  the  morning  in  a 
frame  of  inconceivable  sweetness.  A  sort  of  peace,  tender 
and  divine,  gave  me  a  sense  as  of  heaven.  My  first  thought 
was  like  a  blessing.  I  used  to  call  these  mornings  my  Ger- 
man levers,  to  distinguish  them  from  my  southern  sunsets, 
full  of  heroic  deeds  of  battles,  of  Roman  festivals,  and  of 
ardent  verse.  Well,  after  having  read  the  letter  into  which 
you  breathed  a  fever  of  impatience,  I  felt  in  my  heart  the 
lightness  of  one  of  those  heavenly  awakenings,  when  I  loved 
air  and  nature,  and  felt  myself  destined  to  die  for  some  one  I 
loved.  One  of  your  poems,  '  Le  Chant  d'une  jeune  fille,' 
describes  these  delicious  hours  when  gladness  is  sweet,  when 
prayer  is  a  necessity,  and  it  is  my  favorite  piece.  Shall  I  put 
all  my  flattery  into  one  line :  I  think  you  worthy  to  be  me ! 


94  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

"Your  letter,  though  short,  allowed  me  to  read  your  heart. 
Yes,  I  could  guess  your  tumultuous  impulses,  your  excited 
curiosity,  your  plans,  all  the  faggots  carried  (by  whom)  for 
the  pyre  of  your  heart.  But  I  do  not  yet  know  enough  of 
you  to  comply  with  your  request.  Understand,  dear  one,  it 
is  mystery  which  allows  me  the  freedom  that  betrays  the 
depths  of  my  soul.  When  once  we  have  met,  farewell  to  our 
knowledge  of  each  other. 

"  Shall  we  make  a  bargain  ?  Was  the  first  we  made  a  bad 
one  for  you  ?  You  gained  my  esteem  by  it.  And  admira- 
tion supported  by  esteem  is  a  great  thing,  my  friend.  First 
write  me  a  sketch  of  your  life  in  a  few  words ;  then  tell  me 
about  your  life  in  Paris,  day  by  day,  without  any  disguise,  as  if 
you  were  chattily  to  an  old  friend ;  well,  then,  after  that  I  will 
carry  our  friendship  a  step  further.  I  will  see  you,  my 
friend,  that  I  promise  you ;  and  it  is  a  great  deal. 

"All  this,  dear,  I  warn  you,  is  neither  an  intrigue  nor  an 
adventure  ;  it  cannot  result  in  any  kind  of  an  '  affair  '  of  gal- 
lantry, as  you  men  say  among  yourselves.  My  life  is  involved 
in  it,  and,  moreover — a  thing  which  sometimes  causes  me 
terrible  remorse  as  to  the  thoughts  I  send  flying  to  you  in 
flocks — not  less  involved  is  the  life  of  a  father  and  mother  I 
adore,  whom  I  must  satisfy  in  my  choice,  and  who  in  my  friend 
must  find  a  son. 

"  How  far  can  you  lordly  souls,  to  whom  God  has  given 
the  wings  of  angels,  but  not  always  their  perfections,  yield  to 
the  family  and  its  petty  needs  ?  A  text  I  have  pondered  over 
already !  Although  before  going  forth  to  you  I  said  in  my 
heart,  '  Be  bold  ! '  it  has  not  quaked  the  less  on  the  road,  and 
I  have  never  deceived  myself  either  as  to  the  roughness  of  the 
way  or  the  difficulties  of  the  mountain  I  had  to  climb.  I 
have  followed  it  all  out  in  long  meditations.  Do  I  not  know 
that  men  as  eminent  as  you  are  have  known  the  love  they  have 
inspired  quite  as  well  as  that  they  have  felt ;  that  they  have 
had  more  than  one  romance ;  and  that  you,  above  all,  while 


MODESTE  M1GNON.  95 

cherishing  those  thoroughbred  chimeras  which  a  woman  will 
buy  at  any  cost,  have  gone  through  more  final  than  first  chap- 
ters ?  And  yet  I  could  say  to  myself,  '  Be  bold  ! '  because  I 
have  studied  the  geography  of  the  high  peaks  of  humanity 
that  you  accuse  of  coldness — studied  them  more  than  you 
think.  Did  you  not  say  of  Byron  and  Goethe  that  they  were 
two  colossal  masses  of  egoism  and  poetry?  Ah,  my  friend, 
you  there  fall  into  the  error  of  superficial  minds  ;  but  it  was, 
perhaps,  generosity  on  your  part,  false  modesty,  or  the  hope 
of  evading  me. 

"The  vulgar  maybe  allowed,  but  you  may  not,  to  regard 
the  results  of  hard  work  as  a  development  of  the  individual. 
Neither  Lord  Byron,  nor  Goethe,  nor  Walter  Scott,  nor  Cu- 
vier,  nor  any  inventor  belongs  to  himself;  they  are  all  the 
slaves  of  an  idea ;  and  this  mysterious  power  is  more  jealous 
than  a  woman,  it  absorbs  them,  it  makes  them  or  kills  them 
for  its  own  advantage.  The  visible  outcome  of  this  concealed 
life  resembles  egoism  in  its  effects  ;  but  how  dare  we  say  that 
a  man  who  has  sold  himself  for  the  delight,  the  instruction,  or 
the  greatness  of  his  age  is  an  egoist  ?  Is  a  mother  accused 
of  selfishness  when  she  sacrifices  everything  for  her  child? 
Well,  the  detractors  of  genius  do  not  discern  its  teeming 
maternity,  that  is  all. 

"  The  poet's  life  is  so  perpetual  a  sacrifice  that  he  needs  a 
gigantic  organization  to  enable  him  to  enjoy  the  pleasures  of 
an  ordinary  life.  Hence,  if,  like  Moliere,  he  insists  on  living 
the  life  of  feelings  while  giving  them  expression  in  their  most 
acute  crises,  what  disasters  come  upon  him !  for  to  me  the 
comic  side  of  Moliere,  as  overlaying  his  private  life,  is  really 
horrible.  The  magnanimity  of  genius  seems  to  me  almost 
divine,  and  I  have  classed  you  with  that  noble  family  of  ego- 
ists so  called.  Oh  !  if  I  had  found  shallowness,  self-interest, 
and  ambition  where,  as  it  is,  I  admire  all  the  flowers  of  the 
soul  that  I  love  best,  you  cannot  know  what  slow  suffering 
would  have  consumed  me.  I  found  disappointment  sitting  at 


96  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

the  portal  of  my  sixteenth  year ;  what  should  I  have  done  if  at 
twenty  I  had  found  fame  a  liar,  and  the  man  who,  in  his 
writings,  had  expressed  so  many  of  the  sentiments  buried  in  my 
heart,  incapable  of  understanding  that  heart  when  disclosed 
to  him  alone  ? 

"  Do  you  know,  my  friend,  what  would  have  become  of 
me?  I  am  going  to  admit  you  to  the  very  depths  of  my  soul. 
Well,  I  should  have  said  to  my  father,  '  Bring  me  any  son- 
in-law  to  your  mind  ;  I  give  up  all  free-will ;  get  me  married 
to  please  yourself ! ' — and  the  man  might  have  been  a  notary, 
a  banker,  avaricious,  stupid,  provincial,  as  tiresome  as  a  rainy 
day,  as  vulgar  as  a  parish  voter ;  he  might  have  been  a  manu- 
facturer or  some  brave  but  brainless  soldier — he  would  have 
found  in  me  his  most  resigned  and  attentive  slave.  But  then — 
dreadful  suicide  at  every  instant ! — my  soul  would  never  have 
unfolded  in  the  life-giving  beams  of  the  sun  it  worships.  Not 
a  murmur  should  ever  have  revealed  to  my  father,  my  mother, 
or  my  children  the  suicide  of  the  being  who  is  at  this  moment 
shaking  its  prison-bars,  flashing  lightnings  from  its  eyes,  flying 
to  you  on  outspread  pinions,  perching  like  a  Polyhymnia  in 
the  corner  of  your  study,  breathing  its  atmosphere,  and  gazing 
at  everything  with  a  mildly  inquisitive  eye.  Sometimes  in  the 
fields,  where  my  husband  might  have  taken  me,  I  should  have 
escaped  a  little  way  from  my  babes,  and,  seeing  a  lovely  morn- 
ing, would  secretly  have  shed  a  few  very  bitter  tears.  Finally, 
in  my  heart,  and  in  the  corner  of  a  drawer,  I  should  have 
stored  a  little  comfort  for  every  girl  betrayed  by  love,  poor 
poetical  souls  dragged  into  torments  by  a  smiling  face  ! 

"  But  I  believe  in  you,  my  friend.  This  faith  purifies  the 
most  fantastic  notions  of  my  secret  ambition,  and  sometimes 
— see  how  frank  I  can  be — I  long  to  be  in  the  middle  of  the 
story  we  have  just  begun,  so  assured  am  I  of  my  feelings,  such 
strength  for  love  do  I  feel  in  my  heart,  such  constancy  founded 
on  reason,  such  heroism  to  fulfill  the  duty  I  am  creating  for 
myself  in  case  love  should  ever  turn  to  duty. 


MODESTE  MIGXON.  yj 

"If  it  were  given  to  you  to  follow  me  to  the  splendid  seclu- 
sion where  I  picture  our  happiness,  if  you  could  know  my 
schemes,  you  might  utter  some  terrible  sentence  about  mad- 
ness, and  I  should  perhaps  be  cruelly  punished  for  sending  so 
much  poetry  to  a  poet.  Yes,  I  want  to  be  a  living  spring,  to  be 
as  inexhaustible  as  a  beautiful  country  during  the  twenty  years 
which  nature  allows  us  to  shine  in.  I  will  keep  satiety  at  a 
distance  by  refinements  and  variety.  I  will  be  brave  for  my 
love  as  other  women  are  for  the  world.  I  will  vary  happiness, 
lend  wit  to  tenderness,  and  piquancy  to  faithfulness.  I  am 
ambitious ;  I  will  kill  my  past  rivals,  dispel  superficial  troubles 
by  the  sweetness,  the  proud  self-devotion  of  a  wife,  and,  for  a 
whole  lifetime,  give  such  care  to  the  nest  as  a  bird  gives  for 
only  a  few  days.  This  immense  dower  ought,  and  could, 
only  be  offered  to  a  great  man  before  being  dropped  into  the 
mire  of  vulgar  conventionality. 

"Now,  do  you  still  think  my  first  letter  a  mistake?  A 
gust  of  some  mysterious  will  flung  me  toward  you,  as  a 
tempest  may  carry  a  rose-bush  to  the  heart  of  a  stately  willow. 
And  in  the  letter  I  keep  here — next  my  heart — you  have  ex- 
claimed like  your  ancestor  when  he  set  out  for  the  crusades, 
'  It  is  God's  will ! ' 

"You  will  be  saying,  'How  she  chatters!'  All  those 
about  me  say,  '  Mademoiselle  is  very  silent ! ' 

"O.  D'ESTE-M." 

These  letters  seemed  very  original  to  those  persons  to  whose 
kindness  the  author  of  the  "  Comedie  Humaine  "  is  beholden 
for  them;  but  their  admiration  for  this  duel  between  two 
minds  crossing  their  pens,  while  their  faces  were  hidden  by 
the  strictest  incognito,  may  not  be  generally  shared.  Of  a 
hundred  spectators,  eighty  perhaps  will  be  tired  of  this  assault 
of  arms.  So  the  respect  due  to  the  majority — even  to  a  possi- 
ble majority — in  every  country  enjoying  a  constitutional 
government,  advises  the  suppression  of  eleven  more  letters 
7 


98  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

exchanged  by  Ernest  and  Modeste  during  the  month  of  Sep- 
tember ;  if  a  flattering  majority  should  clamor  for  them,  let 
us  hope  that  it  may  one  day  afford  me  the  means  of  restoring 
them  here. 

Tempted  on  by  a  wit  as  audacious  as  the  heart  beneath 
seemed  to  be  adorable,  the  poor  private  secretary's  really 
heroic  feelings  gave  themselves  the  rein  in  those  letters,  which 
each  reader's  imagination  may  conceive  of  as  finer  than  they 
really  are,  when  picturing  this  harmony  of  two  unfettered 
souls.  Ernest,  indeed,  lived  only  on  those  dear  scraps  of 
paper,  as  a  miser  lives  on  those  sent  forth  by  the  bank ;  while 
in  Modeste  a  deep  attachment  had  grown  up  in  the  place  of 
the  pleasure  of  bringing  excitement  into  a  life  of  celebrity, 
and  being,  in  spite  of  distance,  its  chief  element.  Ernest's 
affection  completed  Canalis'  glory.  Alas !  it  often  takes  two 
men  to  make  one  perfect  lover,  just  as  in  literature  a  type 
can  only  be  produced  by  a  compound  of  the  peculiarities  of 
several  different  characters.  How  often  has  a  woman  said  in 
a  drawing-room  after  some  intimate  talk:  "That  man  would 
be  my  ideal  as  to  his  soul,  but  I  feel  that  I  love  that  other 
who  is  no  more  than  a  fancy  of  my  senses !  " 

The  last  letter  written  by  Modeste,  which  here  follows, 
gives  us  a  glimpse  of  the  "Isle  of  Pheasants,"  whither  the 
divagations  of  this  correspondence  was  conducting  our  lovers  : 


XII. 

To  Monsieur  de  Canalis. 

"  Be  at  le  Havre  on  Sunday ;  go  into  the  church  after  the 
one  o'clock  service,  walk  round  it  two  or  three  times,  go  out 
without  speaking  to  any  one,  without  asking  anybody  a  ques- 
tion ;  wear  a  white  rose  in  your  button-hole.  Then  return  to 
Paris,  you  will  there  find  an  answer.  This  answer  will  not 
be  such  as  you  expect,  for,  I  must  tell  you,  the  future  is  not 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  99 

yet  in  my  hands.  But  should  I  not  be  really  mad  to  say  yes 
without  having  seen  you  ?  When  I  have  seen  you,  I  can  say 
no  without  offense.  I  am  sure  to  remain  unrecognized." 

This  was  the  letter  Modeste  had  sent  off  the  very  day  before 
that  on  which  the  futile  struggle  between  herself  and  Dumay 
had  taken  place.  So  she  was  happy  in  looking  forward  with 
yearning  impatience  to  Sunday,  when  her  eyes  would  prove 
her  intuitions,  her  heart,  to  be  right  or  wrong — one  of  the 
most  solemn  moments  in  a  woman's  life,  made,  too,  as  ro- 
mantic as  the  most  enthusiastic  girl  could  desire  by  three 
months  of  communion  soul  to  soul. 

Everybody,  excepting  her  mother,  had  taken  this  torpor  of 
expectancy  for  the  placidity  of  innocence.  However  strin- 
gent the  laws  of  family  life  and  religious  bonds,  there  are  still 
Julies  d'Etanges  and  Clarissas — souls  which,  like  a  brimming 
cup,  overflow  under  the  divine  touch.  Was  not  Modeste 
splendid  in  the  fierce  energy  she  brought  to  bear  on  repress- 
ing her  exuberant  youth,  and  remaining  concealed?  Let  us 
confess  that  the  memory  of  her  sister  was  more  potent  than 
any  social  limitations  ;  she  had  sheathed  her  will  in  iron  that 
she  might  not  fail  her  father  or  her  family.  But  what  a  tur- 
bulent upheaval !  and  how  could  a  mother  possibly  fail  to 
perceive  it ! 

On  the  following  day  Modeste  and  Madame  Dumay  led 
Madame  Mignon  out  into  the  noonday  sun  to  her  bench 
among  the  flowers.  The  blind  woman  turned  her  pale,  with- 
ered face  toward  the  ocean,  inhaled  the  scent  of  the  sea,  and 
took  Modeste's  hand  in  her  own,  for  the  girl  was  sitting  by 
her  mother.  Even  as  she  was  about  to  question  her  child, 
the  mother  hesitated  between  forgiveness  and  remonstrance, 
for  she  knew  that  this  was  love,  and  to  her,  as  to  the  false 
Canalis,  Modeste  seemed  exceptional. 

"If  only  your  father  may  be  here  in  time!  If  he  delays 
much  longer,  he  will  find  you  alone  of  those  he  loved  ! 


100  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

Promise  me  once  more,  Modeste,  never  to  leave  him,"  she 
said,  with  motherly  persuasiveness. 

Modeste  raised  her  mother's  hands  to  her  lips  and  kissed 
them  softly,  as  she  replied — 

"  Need  I  tell  you  so  again  ?  " 

"Ah,  my  child,  you  see,  I  myself  left  my  father  to  go  to 
my  husband  !  And  my  father  was  alone  too ;  I  was  his  only 

child Is  that  what  God  is  punishing  me  for,  I  wonder? 

All  I  ask  you  is  to  marry  in  agreement  with  your  father's 
choice,  to  keep  a  place  for  him  in  your  heart,  not  to  sacrifice 
him  to  your  happiness ;  to  keep  him  in  the  bosom  of  your 
family.  Before  I  lost  my  sight  I  made  a  note  of  my  wishes ; 
he  will  carry  them  out ;  I  have  enjoined  on  him  to  keep  the 
whole  of  his  fortune,  not  that  I  have  a  thought  of  distrusting 
you,  but  can  one  ever  be  sure  about  a  son-in-law  ?  I,  my 
child,  was  I  prudent?  A  flash  of  an  eye  settled  my  whole 
life.  Beauty,  the  most  deceitful  of  shows,  spoke  the  truth  to 
me ;  but  if  it  should  ever  be  the  same  with  you,  poor  child, 
swear  to  me  that  if  appearances  should  carry  you  away,  as 
they  did  your  mother,  you  would  leave  it  to  your  father  to 
make  inquiries  as  to  the  character,  the  heart,  and  the  previous 
life  of  the  man  of  your  choice,  if  you  make  a  choice." 

"  I  will  never  marry  without  my  father's  consent,"  replied 
Modeste. 

On  hearing  this  answer,  her  mother  sat  in  complete  silence, 
and  her  half-dead  countenance  showed  that  she  was  pondering 
on  it,  as  blind  people  ponder,  meditating  on  her  daughter's 
tone  in  speaking  it. 

"You  see,  my  child,"  said  Madame  Mignon,  after  a  long 
silence,  "  the  thing  is  this  :  If  Caroline's  wrong-doing  is  kill- 
ing me  by  inches,  your  father  would  never  survive  yours  ;  I 
know  him  ;  he  would  blow  his  brains  out ;  there  would  neither 
be  life  nor  happiness  on  earth  for  him " 

Modeste  walked  away  a  few  steps,  and  returned  in  a  minute. 

"  Why  did  you  leave  me  ?  "  asked  Madame  Mignon. 


/    WILL    NEVER    MARRY    WITHOUT    MY   FATHER'S   CONSENT." 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  101 

"You  made  me  cry,  mamma,"  said  Modeste. 

"Well,  my  angel,  kiss  me  then.  You  love  no  one  here? 
You  have  no  one  paying  attentions  to  you  ?  " 

"  No,  mamma,"  said  the  little  Jesuit. 

"  Can  you  swear  to  that?" 

"  Really,  truly  !  "  cried  Modeste. 

Madame  Mignon  said  no  more ;  she  still  doubted. 

"  In  short,  if  you  should  choose  a  husband,  your  father 
would  know  all  about  it  ?  " 

"  I  promised  that  to  my  sister  and  to  you,  mother.  What 
sin  do  you  suppose  I  could  commit  when  every  minute  I  read 
on  my  finger,  '  Remember  Bettina ! '  Poor  little  sister !  " 

At  the  moment  when  the  words,  "  Poor  little  sister  !  "  were 
followed  by  an  interval  of  silence  between  Modeste  and  her 
mother,  from  whose  darkened  eyes  fell  tears  which  Modeste 
could  not  check  even  by  falling  at  Madame  Mignon's  knees 
and  crying,  "Forgive  me;  forgive  me,  mamma!"  at  that 
very  moment  the  worthy  Dumay  was  mounting  the  hill  of 
Ingouville  at  a  rapid  pace,  an  abnormal  incident  in  the 
cashier's  life. 

Three  letters  had  once  brought  them  ruin  ;  one  had  brought 
fortune  back  to  them.  That  morning  Dumay  had  received, 
by  the  hand  of  a  captain  just  returned  from  the  China  seas, 
the  first  news  he  had  had  of  his  patron  and  only  friend. 

To  Monsieur  Dumay,  formerly  Cashier  to  the 
firm  of  Mignon. 

"  MY  DEAR  DUMAY  : — Barring  misadventure  by  sea,  I  shall 
follow  closely  on  the  vessel  by  which  I  am  forwarding  this 
letter  ;  I  would  not  leave  the  ship  to  which  I  am  accustomed. 
I  told  you  no  news  was  to  be  good  news ;  but  the  first  words 
of  this  letter  will  rejoice  you,  for  those  words  are,  I  have  at 
least  seven  millions  of  francs  !  I  am  bringing  a  large  part  of 
it  in  indigo,  a  third  in  good  bills  on  London  and  Paris,  and 


102  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

another  third  in  bright  gold.  The  money  you  sent  me  enabled 
me  to  make  the  sum  I  had  determined  on — two  millions  for 
«ach  of  the  girls,  and  comfort  for  myself. 

"  I  have  been  dealing  wholesale  in  opium  for  the  Canton 
houses,  all  ten  times  as  rich  as  I  am.  You  have  no  notion  in 
Europe  of  what  the  rich  China  merchants  are.  I  traveled 
from  Asia  Minor,  where  I  could  buy  opium  cheap,  to  Canton, 
where  I  sold  it  in  bulk  to  the  firms  that  deal  in  it. 

"  My  last  voyage  was  to  the  Malay  archipelago,  where  I  could 
buy  indigo  of  the  first  quality  with  the  proceeds  of  the  opium 
trade.  Perhaps  I  may  find  that  I  have  five  or  six  hundred 
thousand  francs  more,  as  I  am  valuing  my  indigo  only  at  cost 
price. 

"I  have  been  quite  well  all  the  time;  never  an  ailment. 
That  is  the  reward  of  traveling  for  one's  children  !  At  the 
beginning  of  the  second  year  I  was  able  to  purchase  the 
'  Mignon,'  a  nice  brig  of  seven  hundred  tons  burthen,  built 
of  teak,  and  lined  with  the  same,  and  copper-bottomed  ;  fitted 
throughout  to  suit  my  convenience.  This,  too,  is  worth  some- 
thing. The  seafaring  life,  the  constant  change  needed  in  my 
trading,  and  hard  work,  as  being  in  a  way  my  own  captain 
on  the  high-seas,  have  all  kept  me  in  excellent  health. 

"  To  speak  of  all  this  is  to  speak  of  my  two  girls  and  my 
dear  wife  !  I  hope  that  on  hearing  of  my  ruin  the  wretch  who 
robbed  me  of  my  Bettina  may  have  deserted  her,  and  the 
wandering  lamb  have  returned  to  the  cottage.  She,  no  doubt, 
will  need  a  larger  dower. 

"  My  three  women  and  my  good  Dumay — you  have  all  four 
been  constantly  in  my  thoughts  during  these  three  years. 
Dumay,  you  are  a  rich  man.  Your  share,  beside  my  own 
fortune,  amounts  to  five  hundred  and  sixty  thousand  francs, 
which  I  am  forwarding  to  you  by  a  draft,  payable  to  yourself 
only,  by  the  firm  of  Mongenod,  who  are  advised  from  New 
York.  A  few  months  more  and  I  shall  see  you  all  again — 
well,  I  hope. 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  103 

"  Now,  my  dear  Dumay,  I  write  to  you  only,  because  I  wish 
you  to  keep  the  secret  of  my  fortune,  and  I  leave  it  to  you  to 
prepare  my  dear  ones  for  the  joy  of  my  return.  I  have  had 
enough  of  trade,  and  I  mean  to  leave  le  Havre. 

"  The  choice  of  my  sons-in-law  is  a  very  serious  matter. 
It  is  my  intention  to  repurchase  the  estate  and  chateau  of  la 
Bastie,  to  endow  it  with  an  entailed  settlement  of  a  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  a  year  at  least,  and  to  petition  the 
King  to  confer  my  name  and  titles  on  one  of  my  sons-in-law. 
You,  my  dear  Dumay,  know  the  misfortune  that  befell  us  in 
consequence  of  the  fatal  splendor  given  by  wealth.  By 
that  I  wrecked  the  honor  of  one  of  my  daughters.  I  carried 
back  to  Java  the  most  wretched  of  fathers — an  unhappy  Dutch 
merchant,  with  nine  millions  of  francs,  whose  two  daughters 
had  been  both  carried  off  by  villains  !  We  wept  together  like 
two  children.  So  I  will  not  have  the  amount  of  my  fortune 
known. 

"  I  shall  not  land  at  le  Havre,  but  at  Marseilles.  My  mate 
is  a  Provencal,  an  old  retainer  of  my  family,  whom  I  have 
enabled  to  make  a  little  fortune.  Castagnould  will  have  my 
instructions  to  repurchase  la  Bastie,  and  I  shall  dispose  of  my 
indigo  through  the  firm  of  Mongenod.  I  shall  place  my 
money  in  the  Bank  of  France,  and  come  home  to  you,  pro- 
fessing to  have  made  no  more  than  about  a  million  of  francs 
in  merchandise.  My  daughters  will  be  reputed  to  have  two 
hundred  thousand  francs  apiece.  Then  my  great  business 
will  be  to  decide  which  of  my  sons-in-law  may  be  worthy  to 
succeed  to  my  name,  my  arms,  and  my  titles,  and  to  live 
with  us ;  but  they  must  both  be,  as  you  and  I  are,  absolutely 
steady,  firm,  loyal,  and  honest  men. 

"I  have  never  doubted  you,  old  boy,  for  a  single  instant. 
I  have  felt  sure  that  my  dear  and  admirable  wife,  with  yours 
and  yourself,  will  have  drawn  an  impassable  fence  round  my 
daughter,  and  that  I  may  press  a  kiss  full  of  hope  on  the  pure 
brow  of  the  angel  that  remains  to  me.  Bettina  Caroline,  if 


104  MODESTE  M1GNON. 

you  have  been  able  to  screen  her  fault,  will  have  a  fortune. 
After  trying  war  and  trade,  we  will  now  go  in  for  agriculture, 
and  you  must  be  our  steward.  Will  that  suit  you  ? 

"And  so,  old  friend,  you  are  master  of  your  line  of  con- 
duct to  the  family,  to  tell  them,  or  to  say  nothing  of  my  suc- 
cess. I  trust  to  your  judgment ;  you  are  to  say  just  what  you 
think  right.  In  four  years  there  may  have  been  many  changes 
of  character.  I  make  you  the  judge ;  I  so  greatly  fear  my 
wife's  tender  weakness  with  her  daughters. 

"  Farewell,  my  dear  old  Dumay.  Tell  my  wife  and  daugh- 
ters that  I  have  never  failed  to  embrace  them  in  my  heart 
every  day,  morning  and  evening.  The  second  draft,  for 
forty  thousand  francs,  payable,  like  the  other,  to  you  alone,  is 
for  my  wife  and  daughters  to  go  on  with. 

"  Your  master  and  friend, 

"  CHARLES  MIGNON." 

"Your  father  is  coming  home,"  said  Madame  Mignon  to 
her  daughter. 

"What  makes  you  think  that,  mamma?"  asked  Modeste. 

"  Nothing  could  make  Dumay  run  but  having  that  news  to 
bring  us." 

Modeste,  lost  in  her  own  thoughts,  had  not  seen  nor  heard 
Dumay. 

"  Victory  !  "  shouted  the  lieutenant  from  the  gate.  "Mad- 
ame, the  colonel  has  never  been  ill,  and  he  is  coming  home 

He  is  coming  on  the  '  Mignon,'  a  good  ship  of  his  own, 
which,  with  the  cargo  he  describes  to  me,  must  be  worth 
eight  or  nine  hundred  thousand  francs.  But  he  urgently  begs 
you  will  say  nothing  about  it ;  the  disaster  to  our  poor,  lost 
child  has  eaten  deeply  into  his  heart." 

"  He  has  made  room  in  it  for  a  grave  then,"  said  Madame 
Mignon. 

"  And  he  ascribes  this  disaster — as  seems  to  me  most  prob- 
able— to  the  greed  which  a  large  fortune  excites  in  young 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  105 

men.  My  poor  colonel  hopes  to  find  the  lost  lamb  among  us 
here.  Let  us  rejoice  among  ourselves,  and  say  nothing  to 
anybody,  not  even  to  Latournelle  if  possible.  Mademoiselle," 
he  added  to  Modeste  apart,  "  write  a  letter  to  your  father  to 
tell  him  of  the  loss  in  the  family  and  its  terrible  conse- 
quences, so  as  to  prepare  him  for  the  dreadful  sight  that  awaits 
him  ;  I  will  undertake  that  he  shall  get  the  letter  before  arriv- 
ing at  le  Havre,  for  he  will  be  obliged  to  come  through  Paris; 
write  fully,  you  have  plenty  of  time ;  I  will  take  the  letter 
on  Monday ;  on  Monday,  no  doubt,  I  shall  have  to  go  to 
Paris " 

Modeste  was  now  afraid  lest  Dumay  and  Canalis  should 
meet ;  she  was  eager  to  go  up  to  her  room  and  write  to  put 
off  the  assignation. 

"Tell  me,  mademoiselle,"  Dumay  went  on  in  the  humblest 
tone,  but  standing  in  her  path,  "that  your  father  will  find 
his  daughter  without  a  feeling  in  her  heart  but  that  which  was 
in  it  when  he  left — of  love  for  her  mother." 

"  I  have  sworn  to  my  sister  and  my  mother — I  have  sworn 
to  myself  to  be  my  father's  comfort,  his  joy,  and  his  pride, 
and — I — will  be,"  replied  Modeste,  with  a  haughty  and  scorn- 
ful glance  at  Dumay.  "  Do  not  mar  my  joy  at  knowing  that 
my  father  will  soon  be  among  us  again  by  any  offensive  sus- 
picions. A  young  girl's  heart  cannot  be  hindered  from  beat- 
ing ;  you  do  not  wish  me  to  be  a  mummy  ?  I  belong  to  my 
family ;  but  my  heart  is  my  own.  If  I  love  any  one,  my 
father  and  mother  shall  be  told  of  it.  Are  you  satisfied,  mon- 
sieur ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  mademoiselle,"  replied  Dumay.  "  You  have 
restored  me  to  life.  But  you  might  at  least  have  called  me 
Dumay,  even  when  giving  me  a  slap  in  the  face  !  " 

"  Swear  to  me,"  said  her  mother  earnestly  and  beseechingly, 
"  that  you  have  never  exchanged  a  word  or  a  glance  with  any 
young  man." 

"  I  can  swear  it,"  said  Modeste,  smiling,  and  looking  at 


106  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

Dumay,  who  was  studying  her  with  a  mischievous  smile  like  a 
girl's,  when  playing  off  some  joke. 

"Can  she  really  be  so  false?"  exclaimed  Dumay,  when 
Modeste  had  gone  into  the  house. 

"  My  daughter  Modeste  may  have  her  faults,"  said  the 
mother,  "  but  she  is  incapable  of  a  lie." 

"Well,  then,  let  us  make  ourselves  easy,"  replied  the  lieu- 
tenant, "  and  be  satisfied  that  misfortune  has  now  closed  its 
account  with  us." 

"God  grant  it!  "  said  Madame  Mignon.  "You  will  see 
him,  Dumay  ;  I  can  only  hear  him There  is  much  sad- 
ness in  my  joy." 

Modeste,  meanwhile,  though  happy  in  the  thought  of  her 
father's  return,  was,  like  Pierrette,  distressed  to  see  all  her 
eggs  broken.  She  had  hoped  for  a  larger  fortune  than  Dumay 
had  spoken  of.  She  was  ambitious  for  her  poet,  and  wished 
for  at  least  half  of  the  six  millions  of  which  she  had  written 
in  her  second  letter.  Thus  absorbed  by  her  double  happiness, 
and  annoyed  by  the  grievance  of  her  comparative  poverty, 
she  sat  down  to  her  piano,  the  confidant  of  so  many  girls, 
who  'tell  it  their  anger  and  their  wishes,  expressing  them  in 
their  way  of  playing. 

Dumay  was  talking  to  his  wife,  walking  to  and  fro  below 
her  window,  confiding  to  her  the  secret  of  their  good  fortune, 
and  questioning  her  as  to  her  hopes,  wishes,  and  intentions. 
Madame  Dumay,  like  her  husband,  had  no  family  but  the 
Mignon  family.  The  husband  and  wife  decided  on  living  in 
Provence,  if  the  Count  should  go  to  Provence,  and  to  leave 
their  money  to  any  child  of  Modeste's  that  might  need  it. 

"Listen  to  Modeste,"  said  Madame  Mignon  to  them; 
"  only  a  girl  in  love  could  compose  such  a  melody  without 
any  knowledge  of  music." 

Homes  may  burn,  fortunes  may  collapse,  fathers  may  come 
back  from  their  travels,  empires  may  fall,  cholera  may  ravage 


MODESTE   MIGNON. 


107 


the  town— a  girl's  love  pursues  its  flight  as  nature  keeps  her 
course,  or  that  horrible  acid  discovered  by  chemistry  which 
might  pierce  through  the  earth  if  it  were  not  absorbed  in  the 
centre. 

This  is  the  melody  Modeste  had  improvised  to  some  verses 
which  must  be  quoted  here,  though  they  are  to  be  found  in 
the  second  volume  of  poems  published  by  Dauriat ;  for,  to 
adapt  them  to  the  air,  the  young  composer  had  broken  the 
rhythm  by  some  changes  which  might  puzzle  the  admirers  of  a 
poet  who  is  sometimes  too  precise. 

And  here,  too,  since  modern  typography  allows  of  it,  is 
Modeste's  music,  to  which  her  exquisite  expression  lent  the 
charm  we  admire  in  the  greatest  singers— a  charm  that  no 
printing,  were  it  phonetic  or  hieroglyphic,  could  ever  rep- 
resent : 

A  MAIDEN'S  SONG. 


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MODESTE  MIGNON. 


113 


"It  is  pretty,"  said  Madame  Dumay.  "  Modeste  is  very 
musical;  that  is  all." 

"She  has  the  very  devil  in  her!"  exclaimed  the  cashier, 
for  the  mother's  dread  had  entered  into  his  soul  and  made  his 
blood  run  cold. 

"She  is  in  love,"  returned  Madame  Mignon. 

By  her  success  in  communicating  her  conviction  as  to  Mod- 
este's  secret  passion  on  the  irrefragable  evidence  of  that 
melody,  Madame  Mignon  chilled  the  cashier's  joy  over  his 
patron's  return  and  success.  The  worthy  Breton  went  off  to 
the  town  to  do  his  day's  business  at  Gobenheim's;  then, 
before  going  home  to  dinner,  he  called  on  the  Latournelles  to 
mention  his  fears,  and  once  more  to  request  their  help  and 
cooperation. 

"Yes,  my  good  friend,"  said  Dumay  on  the  threshold,  as 
he  took  leave  of  the  notary,  "  I  am  of  madame's  opinion. 
She  is  in  love,  sure  enough ;  beyond  that  the  devil  only 
knows  ! I  am  disgraced  !  " 

"Do  not  worry  yourself,  Dumay,"  said  the  little  notary. 
"We  certainly,  among  us  all,  must  be  a  match  for  that  little 
lady.  Sooner  or  later  every  girl  who  is  in  love  does  some- 
thing rash  which  betrays  her  secret ;  we  will  talk  it  over  this 
evening." 

So  all  these  persons,  devoted  to  the  Mignon  family,  were 
still  a  prey  to  the  same  anxiety  as  had  tormented  them  before 
the  experiment  that  the  old  soldier  had  expected  to  be  deci- 
8 


114  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

sive.  The  futility  of  all  these  struggles  so  spurred  Dumay's 
conscience  that  he  would  not  go  to  Paris  to  fetch  his  fortune 
before  he  had  discovered  the  clue  to  this  enigma.  All  these 
hearts,  caring  far  more  for  sentiment  than  for  self-interest, 
understood  that  unless  he  found  this  daughter  innocently  pure, 
the  colonel  might  die  of  grief  on  finding  Bettina  dead  and 
his  wife  blind.  The  unhappy  Dumay's  despair  made  so  deep 
an  impression  on  the  Latournelles  that  they  forgot  their  loss  of 
Exupere,  whom  they  had  sent  off  to  Paris  that  morning. 
During  the  dinner  hour,  when  the  three  were  alone,  Monsieur 
and  Madame  Latournelle  and  Butscha  turned  the  matter  over 
under  every  aspect  and  considered  every  conceivable  hypoth- 
esis. 

"  If  Modeste  were  in  love  with  any  one  at  le  Havre,  she 
would  have  quaked  last  night,"  said  Madame  Latournelle, 
"  so  her  lover  must  be  elsewhere." 

"  She  swore  this  morning  to  her  mother,  in  Dumay's  pres- 
ence, that  she  had  not  exchanged  a  glance  or  a  word  with  a 
living  soul,"  said  the  notary. 

"  Then  she  loves  as  I  do  !  "  said  Butscha. 

"And  how  do  you  love,  my  poor  boy?"  asked  Madame 
Latournelle. 

"  Madame,"  replied  the  little  hunchback,  "  I  love  all  to 
myself,  from  afar,  almost  as  far  as  from  hence  to  the  stars." 

"And  how  do  you  get  there,  you  great  goose?"  said 
Madame  Latournelle,  smiling  at  him. 

"  Ah,  madame,  what  you  take  to  be  a  hump  is  the  sheath 
for  my  wings." 

"  Then  this  explains  your  seal !  "  laughingly  exclaimed  the 
lawyer. 

The  clerk's  seal  was  a  star ;  the  motto,  Fulgens,  sequar — 
Shine,  and  I  will  follow  you — the  device  of  the  house  of 
Chastillonest. 

"  A  beautiful  creature  may  be  as  diffident  as  the  most  hide- 
ous," said  Butscha,  as  if  talking  to  himself.  "Modeste  is 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  Ho 

quite  clever  enough  to  have  feared  lest  she  should  be  loved 
only  for  her  beauty." 

Hunchbacks  are  wonderful  creatures,  and  due  entirely  to 
civilization  ;  for,  in  the  scheme  of  nature,  weak  or  deformed 
beings  ought  to  perish.  A  curvature  or  twist  of  the  spinal 
column  gives  to  these  men,  who  seem  to  be  nature's  outcasts, 
a  flashing  look,  in  which  is  concentrated  a  greater  quantity  of 
nervous  fluids  than  other  men  can  command,  in  the  very 
centre  where  they  are  elaborated  and  act,  and  whence  they 
are  sent  forth  like  a  light  to  vivify  their  inmost  being.  Cer- 
tain forces  are  the  result,  detected  occasionally  by  magnetism, 
but  most  frequently  lost  in  the  waste-places  of  the  spiritual 
world.  Try  to  find  a  hunchback  who  is  not  gifted  in  some  re- 
markable way,  either  with  a  cheerful  wit,  superlative  malig- 
nity, or  sublime  kindliness.  These  beings,  privileged  beings 
though  they  know  it  not,  live  within  themselves  as  Butscha 
did,  when  they  have  not  exhausted  their  splendidly  concen- 
trated powers  in  the  battle  they  have  fought  to  conquer 
obstacles  and  remain  alive. 

In  this  way  we  may  explain  the  superstitious  and  popular 
traditions,  which  we  owe  to  the  belief  in  gnomes,  in  frightful 
dwarfs,  in  misshapen  fairies — the  whole  race  of  la  boutcillc,  as 
Rabelais  has  it,  that  contain  rare  balsams  and  elixirs. 

Thus  Butscha  almost  read  Modeste ;  and  with  the  eagerness 
of  a  hopeless  lover,  of  a  slave  ever  ready  to  die  like  the 
soldiers  who,  deserted  and  alone  amid  Russian  snows,  still 
shouted  "  Vive  V  Empereur !  "  he  dreamed  of  discovering  her 
secret  for  himself  alone. 

As  his  chief  and  Madame  Latournelle  walked  up  to  the 
chalet,  he  followed  them  with  a  very  anxious  mien,  for  it  was 
imperative  that  he  should  conceal  from  every  watchful  eye, 
from  every  listening  ear,  the  snare  in  which  he  meant  to 
entrap  the  girl.  There  should  be  a  flashing  glance,  a  start 
detected,  as  when  a  surgeon  lays  his  finger  on  a  hidden  injury. 

That  evening  Gobenheim  did  not  join  them ;  Butscha  was 


116  MODESTE   MIGNON. 

Monsieur  Dumay's  partner  against  Monsieur  and  Madame 
Latournelle.  At  about  nine  o'clock,  while  Modeste  was 
absent  preparing  her  mother's  room,  Madame  Mignon  and 
her  friends  could  talk  openly ;  but  the  poor  clerk,  stricken  by 
the  conviction  which  had  come  on  him  too,  seemed  as  far 
away  from  the  discussion  as  Gobenheim  had  been  the  night 
before. 

"Why,  Butscha,  what  ails  you?"  exclaimed  Madame  La- 
tournelle, astonished  at  him.  "One  might  think  you  had 
lost  all  your  relations  !  " 

A  tear  started  to  the  poor  fellow's  eye — a  foundling,  de- 
serted by  a  Swedish  sailor,  and  his  mother  dead  of  grief  in 
the  workhouse ! 

"  I  have  no  one  in  the  world  but  you,"  he  replied  in  husky 
tones ;  "  and  your  compassion  is  too  pious  ever  to  be  with- 
drawn from  me,  for  I  will  never  cease  to  deserve  your  kind- 
ness." 

The  answer  struck  an  equally  sensitive  chord  in  those 
present,  that  of  delicacy. 

"We  all  love  you,  Monsieur  Butscha,"  said  Madame  Mig- 
non with  emotion. 

"  I  have  six  hundred  thousand  francs  of  my  own  !  "  cried 
the  worthy  Dumay.  "  You  shall  be  a  notary  at  le  Havre, 
and  Latournelle's  successor." 

The  American,  for  her  part,  had  taken  the  poor  hunch- 
back's hand  and  pressed  it. 

"You  have  six  hundred  thousand  francs!"  cried  Latour- 
nelle, pricking  up  his  ears  at  this  speech,  "  and  you  let  these 
ladies  stay  here  !  And  Modeste  has  no  horse  !  And  she  no 
longer  has  lessons  in  music,  in  painting,  in " 

"  Oh,  he  has  only  had  the  money  a  few  hours,"  exclaimed 
the  American. 

"Hush!"  exclaimed  Madame  Mignon.  While  this  was 
going  on,  the  dignified  Madame  Latournelle  had  recovered 
herself.  She  turned  to  Butscha. 


MODESTE   MIGNON.  117 

"  My  dear  boy,"  said  she,  "you  have  so  much  affection 
around  you  that  I  never  considered  the  particular  bearing  of 
a  common  phrase  as  applied  to  you  ;  but  you  may  thank  me 
for  my  blunder,  since  it  has  shown  you  what  friends  you  have 
earned  by  your  beautiful  nature." 

"Then  you  have  some  news  of  Monsieur  Mignon?"  asked 
the  notary. 

"He  is  coming  home,"  said  Madame  Mignon;  "but  we 
must  keep  it  secret.  When  my  husband  hears  how  Butscha 
has  clung  to  us,  and  that  he  has  shown  us  the  warmest  and 
most  disinterested  friendship  when  the  world  turned  its  back 
on  us,  he  will  not  leave  you  to  provide  for  him  entirely, 
Dumay.  And  so,  my  friend,"  she  added,  trying  to  turn 
towards  Butscha,  "you  may  proceed  at  once  to  deal  with 
Latournelle ' ' 

"He  is  of  full  age,  five-and- twenty,"  said  Latournelle. 
"And,  on  my  part,  it  is  paying  off  a  debt,  my  dear  fellow,  if 
I  give  you  the  refusal  of  my  practice." 

Butscha  kissed  Madame  Mignon's  hand,  wetting  it  with  his 
tears,  and  showed  a  tearful  face  when  Modeste  opened  the 
drawing-room  door. 

"Who  has  been  distressing  my  mysterious  dwarf?"  she 
asked. 

"  Oh,  mademoiselle,  do  we  children  nursed  in  sorrow  ever 
shed  tears  of  grief?  I  have  just  received  such  marks  of 
attachment  that  I  was  moved  with  tenderness  for  all  those 
in  whom  I  liked  to  believe  I  had  found  relations.  I  am  to 
be  a  notary;  I  may  grow  rich.  Ah,  ha  !  Poor  Butscha  may 
some  day  be  rich  Butscha.  You  do  not  know  what  audacity 
exists  in  this  abortion  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

The  hunchback  struck  himself  hard  on  his  cavernous  breast, 
and  placed  himself  in  front  of  the  fireplace  after  giving 
Modeste  a  look  that  stole  like  a  gleam  from  under  his  heavy, 
drooping  eyelids ;  for  in  this  unforeseen  conjuncture  he  had 
found  his  chance  of  sounding  his  sovereign  lady's  heart. 


118  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

For  an  instant  Dumay  fancied  that  the  clerk  had  dared 
aspire  to  Modeste;  he  exchanged  looks  with  his  friends  which 
were  understood  by  all,  and  which  made  them  gaze  at  the 
little  hunchback  with  a  sort  of  dread  mingled  with  curiosity. 

"  I — I  too — have  my  dreams,"  Butscha  went  on,  not  taking 
his  eyes  off  Modeste. 

The  girl  looked  down  instinctively,  in  a  way  which  was  a 
revelation  to  the  clerk.  "  You  love  romances  ;  allow  me,  in 
the  midst  of  my  joy,  to  confide  my  secret  to  you,  and  you 
will  tell  me  if  the  end  of  the  romance  I  have  dreamed  of  for 

my  life  is  possible If  not,  of  what  use  is  fortune.  To 

me,  more  than  to  any  one  else,  money  is  happiness,  since  to 
me  happiness  means  the  enriching  of  the  one  I  love !  You 
who  know  so  many  things,  mademoiselle,  tell  me  whether  a 
man  can  be  loved  independently  of  his  person — handsome  or 
ugly,  and  for  his  soul  alone  ? ' ' 

Modeste  looked  up  at  Butscha.  It  was  a  terrible,  question- 
ing look,  for  at  this  moment  Modeste  shared  Dumay's  suspi- 
cions. "  When  I  am  rich,  I  shall  look  out  for  some  poor  but 
beautiful  girl,  a  foundling  like  myself,  who  has  suffered  much, 
and  is  very  unhappy  ;  I  will  write  to  her,  comfort  her,  be  her 
good  genius ;  she  shall  read  my  heart,  my  soul ;  she  shall 
have  all  my  wealth,  in  both  kinds — my  gold,  offered  with 
great  delicacy,  and  my  mind,  beautified  by  all  the  graces 
which  the  misfortune  of  birth  has  denied  to  my  grotesque 
form  !  And  I  will  remain  hidden,  like  a  cause  which  science 
seeks.  God  perhaps  is  not  beautiful.  The  girl  will  naturally 
be  curious  and  want  to  see  me  ;  but  I  shall  tell  her  that  I  am 
a  monster  of  ugliness,  I  will  describe  myself  as  hideous " 

At  this,  Modeste  looked  hard  in  his  face.  If  she  had  said, 
"  What  do  you  know  of  my  love  affairs  ?  "  it  could  not  have 
been  more  explicit. 

"  If  I  am  so  happy  as  to  be  loved  for  the  poetry  of  my 
soul ! — if,  some  day,  I  might  seem  to  that  woman  to  be  only 
slightly  deformed,  confess  that  I  shall  be  happier  than  the 


MODES  TE  MIGNON.  119 

handsomest  of  men,  that  even  a  man  of  genius  beloved  by 
such  a  heavenly  creature  as  you  are " 

The  blush  that  mounted  to  Modeste's  face  betrayed  almost 
the  whole  of  the  girl's  secret  to  the  hunchback. 

"  Well,  now,  if  a  man  can  enrich  the  girl  he  loves,  and 
charm  her  heart  irrespective  of  his  person,  is  that  the  way  to 
be  loved  ?  This  has  been  the  poor  hunchback's  dream — 
yesterday's  dream ;  for  to-day  your  adorable  mother  has  given 
me  the  clue  to  my  future  treasure  by  promising  to  facilitate 
my  acquiring  an  office  and  connection.  Still,  before  becom- 
ing a  Gobenheim,  I  must  know  whether  such  a  horrible  trans- 
formation will  achieve  its  end.  What  do  you  think,  made- 
moiselle, on  your  part?  " 

Modeste  was  so  taken  by  surprise  that  she  did  not  observe 
Butscha's  appeal  to  her  judgment.  The  lover's  snare  was 
better  contrived  than  the  soldier's ;  for  the  poor  girl,  quite 
bewildered,  stood  speechless. 

' '  Poor  Butscha !  ' '  said  Madame  Latournelle  to  her  hus- 
banand,  "  is  he  going  mad?  " 

"  You  want  to  play  the  fairy  tale  of  Beauty  and  the  Beast," 
said  Modeste  at  last,  "  and  you  forget  that  the  Beast  is  turned 
into  Prince  Charming." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  said  the  dwarf.  "  Now  I  have  always 
imagined  that  transformation  to  symbolize  the  phenomenon 
of  the  soul  becoming  visible  and  eclipsing  the  body  by  its 
radiant  glory.  If  I  should  never  be  loved,  I  shall  remain 
invisible,  that  is  all !  You  and  yours,  madame,"  said  he  to 
his  mistress,  "  instead  of  having  a  dwarf  at  your  command, 
will  have  a  life  and  fortune." 

Butscha  returned  to  his  seat,  and  said  to  the  three  players, 
affecting  perfect  calmness — 

"Who  deals?" 

But  to  himself  he  was  saying  with  grief,  "  She  wants  to  be 
loved  for  her  own  sake ;  she  is  corresponding  with  some  sham 
great  man,  but  how  far  has  she  gone  ? ' ' 


120  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

"My  dear  mamma,  it  has  struck  a  quarter  to  ten,"  said 
Modeste  to  her  mother. 

Madame  Mignon  bid  her  friends  good-night,  and  went  to 
bed. 

Those  who  insist  on  loving  in  secret  may  be  watched  over 
by  Pyrenean  dogs,  mothers,  Dumays,  Latournelles — they  are 
in  no  danger  from  these ;  but  a  lover  !  It  is  diamond  cut 
diamond,  fire  against  fire,  wit  against  wit,  a  perfect  equation, 
of  which  the  terms  are  equal  and  interchangeable. 

On  Sunday  morning  Butscha  was  beforehand  with  Madame 
Latournelle,  who  always  went  to  escort  Modeste  to  mass,  and 
stayed  cruising  about  outside  the  chalet,  waiting  for  the  post- 
man. 

"  Have  you  a  letter  for  Mademoiselle  Modeste  this  morn- 
ing ?  "  he  asked  of  that  humble  functionary  as  he  approached. 

"  No,  monsieur,  no " 

"  We  have  been  good  customers  of  the  government  for 
some  time  past !  "  exclaimed  the  clerk. 

"  I  believe  you  !  "  replied  the  postman. 

Modeste  from  her  room  saw  and  heard  this  little  interview; 
she  posted  herself  at  her  window  at  this  hour,  behind  the 
Venetian  shutter,  to  watch  for  the  postman. 

She  went  down  and  out  into  the  little  garden,  where,  in  a 
husky  voice,  she  called  out,  "  Monsieur  Butscha  !  " 

"  Here  am  I,  mademoiselle,"  said  the  hunchback,  coming 
to  the  little  gate,  which  Modeste  herself  opened. 

"Will  you  tell  me  whether  you  include  among  your  titles 
to  the  affection  of  a  woman  the  disgraceful  espionage  you 
choose  to  exercise?"  asked  the  girl,  trying  to  overwhelm  her 
slave  by  her  gaze  and  queenly  attitude. 

"Yes,  mademoiselle,"  he  proudly  replied.  "I  had  never 
imagined,"  he  added  in  a  low  voice,  "  that  a  worm  could  do 
good  service  to  a  star  !  But  so  it  is.  Would  you  rather  have 
your  heart  read  by  your  mother,  Monsieur  Dumay,  and  Mad- 
ame Latournelle  than  by  a  poor  creature,  almost  an  outcast 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  1-jl 

from  life,  who  is  yours  as  much  as  one  of  the  flowers  you  cut 
to  gratify  you  for  a  moment  ?  They  all  know  that  you  love  ; 
I  alone  know  how.  Take  me  as  you  would  take  a  watch-dog ; 
I  will  obey  you,  I  will  protect  you,  I  will  never  bark,  and  I 
will  have  no  opinions  about  you.  All  I  ask  is  that  you  will 
let  me  be  of  some  use  to  you.  Your  father  placed  a  Dumay 
in  your  menagerie ;  try  a  Butscha,  and  you  will  find  it  quite 
another  story  !  A  poor  Butscha,  who  asks  for  nothing,  not 
even  for  a  bone." 

"Well,  I  will  take  you  on  trial,"  said  Modeste,  who  only 
wished  to  be  rid  of  so  sharp  a  guardian.  "  Go  at  once  to  all 
the  hotels  at  Graville  and  le  Havre,  and  ask  if  a  M.  Arthur 
has  arrived  from  England " 

"Listen,  mademoiselle,"  said  Butscha  respectfully,  but  in- 
terrupting Modeste,  "  I  will  just  go  for  a  walk  on  the  beach, 
and  that  will  be  all  that  is  necessary,  for  you  do  not  wish  me 
to  go  to  church,  that  is  all." 

Modeste  looked  at  the  hunchback  in  blank  astonishment. 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle,  though  you  have  wrapped  your  face  in 
wadding  and  a  handkerchief,  you  have  no  cold  ;  though  you 
have  a  double  veil  to  your  hat,  it  is  only  to  see  without  being 
seen." 

"What  endows  you  with  so  much  penetration?"  cried 
Modeste,  reddening. 

"  Why,  mademoiselle,  you  have  no  stays  on  !  A  cold  would 
not  require  you  to  disguise  your  figure  by  putting  on  several 
petticoats,  to  hide  your  hands  in  old  gloves,  and  your  pretty 
feet  in  hideous  boots,  to  dress  yourself  anyhow,  to — 

"That  will  do,"  said  she.  "But,  now,  how  am  I  sure 
that  you  will  obey  me  ?  " 

"  My  master  wanted  to  go  to  Sainte-Adresse,  and  was  rather 
put  out ;  but  as  he  is  really  very  kind,  he  would  not  deprive 
me  of  my  Sunday.  Well,  I  will  propose  to  him  that  we 
should  go " 


122  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

"Are  you  sure  you  will  not  want  me  at  le  Havre?" 

"  Quite.  Listen,  mysterious  dwarf,  and  look  up,"  she  said, 
pointing  to  a  cloudless  sky.  "  Can  you  see  the  track  left  by 
the  bird  that  flew  across  just  now  ?  Well,  my  actions,  as  pure 
as  that  pure  air,  leave  no  more  trace  than  that.  Reassure 
Dumay  and  the  Latournelles,  reassure  my  mother;  and  be 
sure  that  this  hand  "  (and  she  held  out  to  him  a  slender  little 
hand  with  upturned  finger-tips,  transparent  to  the  light)  "will 
never  be  given  away,  never  even  warmed  by  the  kiss  of  what 
is  called  a  lover,  before  my  father's  return." 

' '  And  why  do  you  want  me  to  keep  away  from  church 
to-day?" 

"  Do  you  cross-question  me,  after  all  I  have  done  you  the 
honor  to  tell  you  and  require  of  you?" 

Butscha  bowed  without  replying,  and  hastened  home,  enrap- 
tured at  thus  entering  the  service  of  his  anonymous  mistress. 

An  hour  later  Monsieur  and  Madame  Latournelle  came  to 
fetch  Modeste,  who  complained  of  a  dreadful  toothache. 

"  I  really  had  not  strength  to  dress,"  said  she. 

"  Well,  then,  stay  at  home,"  said  the  notary's  wife. 

"  No,  no.  I  will  go  and  pray  for  my  father's  safe  return," 
replied  Modeste  ;  "and  I  thought  that  if  I  wrapped  up  well, 
it  would  do  me  more  good  than  harm  to  go  out." 

So  Mademoiselle  Mignon  set  out  alone  with  Latournelle. 
She  would  not  take  his  arm  for  fear  of  being  questioned  as  to 
the  internal  tremor  that  agitated  her  at  the  idea  of  so  soon 
seeing  her  great  poet.  One  look,  the  first,  was  about  to  decide 
her  future  existence. 

Is  there  in  the  life  of  man  a  more  exquisite  moment  than 
that  of  the  first  promised  meeting  ?  Can  the  feelings  that  lie 
buried  in  his  heart,  and  that  then  burst  into  life,  ever  be 
known  again  ?  Can  he  ever  again  feel  the  pleasure  that  he 
finds,  as  did  Ernest  de  la  Briere,  in  choosing  his  best  razors, 
his  finest  shirts,  spotless  collars,  and  impeccable  clothes  ?  We 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  133 

deify  everything  that  is  associated  with  that  supreme  hour. 
We  imagine  poems  in  our  hearts,  secret  poems  as  beautiful  as 
the  woman's,  and  on  the  day  when  each  reads  the  other's  soul 
all  is  over  !  Is  it  not  the  same  with  these  things  as  with  the 
blossom  of  those  wild  fruits,  at  once  sharp  and  sweet,  lost  in 
forest  depths,  the  delight  of  the  sun,  no  doubt ;  or,  as  Canalis 
says  in  "  The  Maiden's  Song,"  the  gladness  of  the  plant  itself 
which  the  Angel  of  Flowers  has  allowed  to  see  its  own  beauty. 

This  leads  to  the  reflection  that  la  Briere,  a  modest  soul, 
like  many  another  penurious  being  for  whom  life  begins  with 
toil  and  money  difficulties,  had  never  yet  been  loved.  He 
had  arrived  at  le  Havre  the  night  before,  and  had  at  once 
gone  to  bed  like  a  coquette,  to  efface  every  trace  of  his  jour- 
ney ;  and  he  had  now,  after  taking  a  bath,  just  completed  a 
carefully  advantageous  toilet.  This,  perhaps,  is  the  place  for 
giving  a  full-length  portrait  of  him,  if  only  to  justify  the  last 
letter  Modeste  was  ever  to  write  to  him. 

Born  of  a  good  family  at  Toulouse,  distantly  connected 
with  that  minister  who  took  him  under  his  patronage,  Ernest 
has  the  well-bred  air  which  comes  of  an  education  begun  from 
the  cradle ;  the  habit  of  business  has  given  it  solidity  without 
effort,  for  pedantry  is  the  rock  on  which  precocious  gravity  is 
commonly  wrecked.  Of  medium  height,  his  face  is  attractively 
refined  and  gentle;  his  complexion  warm,  though  colorless,  was 
at  that  time  set  off  by  a  slender  mustache  and  a  small  imperial, 
a  virgule  a  la  Mazarin.  But  for  these  manly  witnesses,  he 
would,  perhaps,  have  looked  too  much  like  a  girl  dressed  up, 
so  delicate  is  the  cut  of  his  face  and  lips,  so  natural  is  it  to 
attribute  to  a  woman  teeth  of  transparent  enamel  and  almost 
artificial  evenness.  Add  to  these  feminine  characteristics  a 
voice  as  sweet  as  his  looks,  as  gentle  as  his  turquoise-blue  eyes, 
with  Oriental  lids,  and  you  will  perfectly  understand  how  it  was 
that  the  minister  had  nicknamed  his  young  private  secretary 
Mademoiselle  de  la  Briere.  His  broad,  smooth  forehead, 
framed  under  thick  black  hair,  has  a  dreamy  look  that  does 


124  MODESTE   MIGNON. 

not  contradict  the  expression  of  his  countenance,  which  is 
wholly  melancholy.  The  prominence  of  the  eyebrows,  though 
delicately  arched,  overshadows  the  eyes,  and  adds  to  this  look 
of  melancholy  by  the  sadness — a  physical  sadness,  so  to  speak 
— that  the  eyelids  give  when  they  half-close  the  eyes.  This 
secret  bashfulness,  to  which  we  give  the  name  of  modesty, 
characterizes  his  features  and  person.  The  whole  result  will, 
perhaps,  be  better  understood  if  we  add  that  the  theory  of 
perfect  drawing  demands  greater  length  in  the  shape  of  the 
head,  more  space  between  the  chin,  which  ends  abruptly,  and 
the  forehead,  on  which  the  hair  grows  too  low.  Thus  the 
face  looks  flattened.  Work  had  already  graven  a  furrow  be- 
tween the  eyebrows,  which  were  thick,  and  too  nearly  met,  like 
those  of  all  jealous  natures.  Though  la  Briere  was  as  yet 
slight,  his  figure  was  one  of  those  which,  developing  late,  are 
most  unexpectedly  stout  at  the  age  of  thirty  or  thirty-five 
years. 

The  young  man  might  very  well  have  typified,  to  those 
who  are  familiar  with  French  history,  the  royal  and  myste- 
rious personality  of  Louis  XIII.,  with  his  melancholy  diffi- 
dence for  no  known  reason,  pallid  under  his  crown,  loving 
the  fatigue  of  hunting,  and  hating  work ;  so  timid  with  his 
mistress  as  to  respect  her  virtue,  so  indifferent  to  his  friend 
as  to  leave  him  to  be  beheaded  ;  explicable  only  by  his  re- 
morse at  having  avenged  his  father  on  his  mother — either  a 
Catholic  Hamlet  or  the  victim  of  some  incurable  malady. 
But  the  canker-worm  which  paled  the  King's  cheek  and  un- 
nerved his  strength  was  as  yet,  in  Ernest,  no  more  than 
simple  distrust  of  himself,  the  shyness  of  a  man  to  whom  no 
woman  had  ever  said,  "How  I  love  you  !  "  and,  above  all, 
wasted  self-sacrifice.  After  hearing  the  knell  of  a  monarchy 
in  the  fall  of  a  minister,  the  poor  boy  had  found  in  Canalis  a 
rock  hidden  under  tempting  mosses ;  he  was  seeking  a  despot- 
ism to  worship  ;  and  this  uneasiness,  that  of  a  dog  in  search 
of  a  master,  gave  him  the  expression  of  the  King  who  found 


MODESTE   MIGNON.  125 

his.  These  clouds  and  feelings,  this  "pale  cast"  over  his 
whole  person,  made  his  face  far  more  attractive  than  the 
young  secretary  himself  imagined,  annoyed  as  he  was  some- 
times to  find  himself  classed  by  women  as  a  beau  tenebreux— 
gloomily  handsome ;  a  style  gone  quite  out  of  fashion  at  a 
time  when  every  man  would  gladly  keep  the  clarions  of  adver- 
tisement for  his  own  exclusive  use. 

So  Ernest  the  diffident  had  sought  the  adornment  of  the 
most  fashionable  clothes.  For  this  interview,  when  everything 
would  depend  on  first  sight,  he  donned  black  trousers  and 
carefully  polished  shoes,  a  sulphur-colored  waistcoat,  revealing 
an  excessively  fine  shirt  fastened  with  opal  studs,  a  black 
necktie,  and  a  short  blue  coat,  which  looked  as  if  it  had  been 
glued  to  his  back  and  waist  by  some  new  process ;  his  rosette 
graced  the  button-hole.  He  wore  smart  kid  gloves  of  the 
color  of  Florentine  bronze,  and  held  in  his  left  hand  a  light 
cane  and  his  hat,  with  a  certain  Louis-quatorze  air;  thus 
showing,  as  the  sacred  place  demanded,  his  carefully  combed 
hair,  on  which  the  light  shed  satin-like  reflections.  Standing 
sentry  under  the  porch  from  the  very  beginning  of  the  ser- 
vice, he  studied  the  church  while  watching  all  the  Christians, 
more  especially  those  in  petticoats,  who  came  to  dip  their 
fingers  in  the  holy  water. 

As  Modeste  came  in,  an  inner  voice  cried  out,  "  "Tis 
he!"  That  coat  and  figure,  so  essentially  Parisian,  the 
rosette,  the  gloves,  the  walking-cane,  the  scented  hair — none 
of  these  things  were  native  to  le  Havre.  And  when  la  Briere 
turned  to  look  at  the  notary's  tall  and  showy  wife,  the  little 
notary  himself  and  the  bundle — a  word  dedicated  to  this  sense 
by  women — under  which  Modeste  had  concealed  herself, 
though  she  was  fully  prepared,  the  poor  child  was  stricken  to 
the  heart  by  the  aspect  of  this  romantic  countenance,  in  the 
bright  daylight  from  the  open  door.  She  could  not  be  mis- 
taken ;  a  small  white  rose  almost  hid  the  rosette.  Would 
Ernest  recognize  his  unknown  fair  hidden  under  an  old  hat 


126  MODESTE   MIGNON. 

and  a  double  veil  ?  Modeste  was  so  fearful  of  the  clairvoyance 
of  love  that  she  walked  with  an  elderly  shuffle. 

"Wife,"  said  Latournelle,  as  he  went  to  his  place,  "that 
man  does  not  belong  to  le  Havre." 

"  So  many  strangers  come  through,"  replied  that  lady  to 
her  husband. 

"  But  do  strangers  ever  think  of  coming  to  see  our  church, 
which  is  not  more  than  two  centuries  old?  " 

Ernest  remained  in  the  porch  all  through  the  service  with- 
out seeing  any  woman  who  realized  his  hopes.  Modeste,  on 
her  part,  could  not  control  her  trembling  till  near  the  end. 
She  was  agitated  by  joys  which  she  alone  could  have  described. 
At  last  she  heard  on  the  pavement  the  step  of  a  gentleman, 
for,  mass  being  over,  Ernest  was  walking  round  the  church, 
where  no  one  remained  but  the  dilettanti  of  prayer,  who  be- 
came to  him  the  object  of  anxious  and  piercing  scrutiny.  He 
remarked  the  excessive  trembling  of  the  prayer-book  held  by 
the  veiled  lady  as  he  passed  her ;  and  as  she  was  the  only  one 
who  hid  her  face,  he  conceived  some  suspicions,  confirmed  by 
'Modeste's  dress,  which  he  studied  with  the  care  of  an  inquisi- 
tive lover. 

When  Madame  Latournelle  left  the  church,  he  followed  her 
at  a  decent  distance,  and  saw  her,  with  Modeste,  go  into  the 
house  in  the  Rue  Royale,  where  Mademoiselle  Mignon  usually 
waited  till  the  hour  of  vespers.  Ernest  studied  the  house, 
decorated  with  escutcheons,  and  asked  of  a  passer-by  the  name 
of  the  owner,  who  was  mentioned  almost  with  pride  as  Mon- 
sieur Latournelle,  the  first  notary  of  le  Havre. 

As  he  lounged  down  the  Rue  Royale,  trying  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  interior  of  the  house,  Modeste  could  see  her 
lover ;  she  then  declared  herself  to  be  too  ill  to  attend  vespers, 
and  Madame  Latournelle  kept  her  company.  So  poor  Ernest 
had  his  cruise  for  his  pains.  He  dared  not  go  to  loiter  about 
Ingouville  ;  he  made  it  a  point  of  honor  to  obey,  and  returned 
to  Paris  after  writing  a  letter  while  waiting  for  the  coach,  and 


MODESTE  M1GNON.  127 

posting  it  for  Franchise  Cochet  to  receive  next  morning  with 
the  postmark  of  le  Havre. 

Monsieur  and  Madame  Latournelle  dined  at  the  chalet  every 
Sunday,  taking  Modeste  home  after  vespers.  As  soon  as  the 
young  lady  felt  better,  they  all  went  up  to  Ingouville,  followed 
by  Butscha.  Modeste,  quite  happy,  now  dressed  herself  beau- 
tifully. As  she  went  down  to  dinner  she  forget  all  about  her 
disguise  of  the  morning,  and  her  cold,  and  sang — 

"  Night  and  sleep  begone  !     My  heart,  the  violet 
To  God  her  incense  breathes  at  break  of  day ! " 

Butscha  felt  a  thrill  as  he  beheld  Modeste,  she  seemed  to 
him  so  completely  changed  ;  for  the  wings  of  love  fluttered,  as 
it  were,  on  her  shoulders ;  she  looked  like  a  sylph,  and  her 
cheeks  glowed  with  the  divine  hue  of  happiness. 

"  Whose  words  are  those  which  you  have  set  to  such  a  pretty 
air?"  Madame  Mignon  asked  her  daughter. 

"  They  are  by  Canalis,  mamma,"  she  replied,  turning  in  an 
instant  to  the  finest  crimson,  from  her  neck  to  the  roots  of  her 
hair. 

"  Canalis  !  "  exclaimed  the  dwarf,  who  learned  from  Mod- 
este's  tone  and  blush  all  of  her  secret  that  he  as  yet  knew  not. 
"  He,  the  great  poet,  does  he  write  ballads?  " 

"They  are  some  simple  lines,"  replied  she,  "to  which  I 
have  ventured  to  adapt  some  reminiscences  of  German  airs." 

"  No,  no,  my  child,"  said  Madame  Mignon  ;  "that  music 
is  your  own,  my  dear." 

Modeste,  feeling  herself  grow  hotter  and  hotter,  went  out 
into  the  garden,  taking  Butscha  with  her. 

"You  can  do  me  a  great  service,"  said  she,  in  an  under- 
tone. "  Dumay  is  affecting  discretion  to  my  mother  and  me 
as  to  the  amount  of  the  fortune  my  father  is  bringing  home, 
and  I  want  to  know  the  truth.  Has  not  Dumay,  at  different 
times,  sent  papa  five  hundred  and  something  thousand  francs? 


128  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

My  father  is  not  the  man  to  stay  abroad  four  years  simply  to 
double  his  capital.  Now  a  ship  is  coming  in  that  is  all  his 
own,  and  the  share  he  offers  Dumay  amounts  to  nearly  six 
hundred  thousand  francs." 

"We  need  not  question  Dumay,"  said  Butscha.  "Your 
father  had  lost,  as  you  know,  four  millions  of  francs  before 
his  departure,  these  he  has  no  doubt  recovered ;  he  would 
certainly  have  given  Dumay  ten  per  cent,  of  his  profits ;  so, 
from  the  fortune  the  worthy  Breton  confesses  to,  my  chief  and 
I  calculate  that  the  colonel's  must  amount  to  six  or  seven 
millions " 

"Oh,  father  !  "  cried  Modeste,  crossing  her  arms  and  rais- 
ing her  eyes  to  heaven,  "  you  have  given  me  a  second  life!  " 

"Oh,  mademoiselle,  you  love  a  poet!  A  man  of  that 
stamp  is  more  or  less  of  a  Narcissus.  Will  he  love  you  as  he 
ought?  A  craftsman  in  words,  always  absorbed  in  fitting 
sentences  together,  is  very  fatiguing.  A  poet,  mademoiselle, 
is  not  poetry — any  more  than  the  seed  is  the  flower." 

"  Butscha,  I  never  saw  such  a  handsome  man  !  " 

"  Beauty,  mademoiselle,  is  a  veil  which  often  serves  to 
hide  many  imperfections." 

"  He  has  the  most  angelic  heart  that  heaven " 

"God  grant  you  may  be  right,"  said  the  dwarf,  clasping 
his  hands.  "  May  you  be  happy  !  That  man,  like  yourself, 
will  have  a  slave  in  Jean  Butscha.  I  shall  then  no  longer  be  a 
notary  ;  I  shall  give  myself  up  to  study — to  science " 

"And  why?" 

"Well,  mademoiselle,  to  bring  up  your  children,  if  you 

will  condescend  to  allow  me  to  be  their  tutor Oh  !  if  you 

would  accept  a  piece  of  advice !  Look  here,  let  me  go  to 
work  my  own  way.  I  could  ferret  out  this  man's  life  and 
habits,  could  discover  if  he  is  kind,  if  he  is  violent  or  gentle, 
if  he  will  show  you  the  respect  you  deserve,  if  he  is  capable 
of  loving  you  perfectly,  preferring  you  to  all  else,  even  to  his 
own  talent " 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  129 

"  What  can  it  matter  if  I  love  him  ?  "  said  she  simply. 

"To  be  sure,  that  is  true,"  cried  the  hunchback. 

At  this  moment  Madame  Mignon  was  saying  to  her  friends: 

"  My  daughter  has  this  day  seen  the  man  she  loves." 

"  Can  it  be  that  sulphur-colored  waistcoat  that  puzzled  you 
so  much,  Latournelle  ?"  at  once  ejaculated  the  notary's 
wife.  "  That  young  man  had  a  pretty  white  rosebud  in  his 
button-hole  and " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  mother,  "  a  token  to  be  known  by  !  " 

"  He  wore  the  rosette  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,"  Madame 
Latournelle  went  on.  "  He  is  a  charming  youth  !  But  we 
are  all  wrong  ;  Modeste  never  raised  her  veil,  she  was  huddled 
up  like  a  pauper,  and " 

"  And  she  said  she  was  ill,"  added  the  notary.  "But  she 
has  thrown  off  her  mufflers,  and  is  perfectly  well  now  !  " 

"It  is  incomprehensible  !  "  said  Dumay. 

"  Alas  !  it  is  as  clear  as  day,"  said  the  notary. 

"  My  child,"  said  Madame  Mignon  to  Modeste,  who  came 
in,  followed  by  Butscha,  "did  you  happen  to  see  in  church 
this  morning  a  well-dressed  little  man  with  a  white  rose  in 
his  buttonhole,  and  the  rosette " 

"  I  saw  him,"  Butscha  hastily  put  in,  seeing  by  the  atten- 
tion of  the  whole  party  what  a  trap  Modeste  might  fall  into. 
"  It  was  Grindot,  the  famous  architect,  with  whom  the  town 
is  treating  for  the  restoration  of  the  church.  He  came  from 
Paris,  and  I  found  him  this  morning  examining  the  outside 
as  I  set  out  for  Sainte-Adresse." 

"Oh!  he  is  an  architect!  He  puzzled  me  greatly," 
said  Modeste,  to  whom  Butscha  had  secured  time  to  recover 
herself. 

Dumay  looked  askance  at  Butscha.  Modeste,  put  on  her 
guard,  assumed  an  impenetrable  demeanor.  Dumay's  sus- 
picions were  excited  to  the  highest  pitch,  and  he  resolved  to 
go  next  day  to  the  mayor  and  ascertain  whether  the  expected 
architect  had  in  fact  been  at  le  Havre.  Butscha,  on  his  part, 
9 


130  MODESTE   MIGNON. 

very  uneasy  as  to  Modeste's  ultimate  fate,  decided  on  starting 
for  Paris  to  set  a  watch  over  Canalis. 

Gobenheim  arrived  in  time  to  play  a  rubber,  and  his  pres- 
ence repressed  the  ferment  of  feeling.  Modeste  awaited  her 
mother's  bedtime  almost  with  impatience ;  she  wanted  to  write, 
and  this  is  the  letter  her  love  dictated  to  her  when  she  thought 
that  every  one  was  asleep : 


XIII. 
To  Monseiur  de  Canalis. 

"  Oh,  my  best-beloved  friend,  what  vile  libels  are  your  por- 
traits displayed  in  the  print-sellers'  windows  !  And  I  who  was 
happy  with  that  detestable  lithograph  !  I  am  quite  shy  of 
loving  such  a  handsome  man.  No,  I  cannot  conceive  that 
Paris  women  can  be  so  stupid  as  not  to  see,  one  and  all,  that 
you  are  the  fulfillment  of  their  dreams.  You  neglected  !  You 
loveless  !  I  do  not  believe  a  word  you  have  said  about  your 
obscure  and  laborious  life,  your  devotion  to  an  idol  till  now 
vainly  sought  for.  You  have  been  too  well  loved,  monsieur ; 
your  brow,  as  pale  and  smooth  as  a  magnolia  petal,  plainly 
shows  it,  and  I  shall  be  wretched. 

"  What  am  I  now?  Ah  !  why  have  you  called  me  forth  to 
life  ?  In  one  instant  I  felt  that  I  had  shed  my  ponderous 
chrysalis  !  My  soul  burst  the  crystal  which  held  it  cap- 
tive ;  it  rushed  through  my  veins.  In  short,  the  cold 
silence  of  things  suddenly  ceased  to  me ;  everything  in 
nature  spoke  to  me.  The  old  church  to  me  was  luminous ; 
its  vault,  glittering  with  gold  and  azure,  like  that  of  an 
Italian  church,  sparkled  above  my  head.  The  melodious 
strains,  sung  by  angels  to  martyrs  to  make  them  forget  their 
anguish,  sounded  through  the  organ  !  The  hideous  pavement 
of  le  Havre  seemed  like  a  flowery  path.  I  recognized  the  sea 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  131 

as  an  old  friend,  whose  language,  full  of  sympathy,  I  had 
never  known  well  enough.  I  saw  how  the  roses  in  my  garden 
and  greenhouse  had  long  worshiped  me,  and  whispered  to  me 
to  love  !  They  all  smiled  on  me  on  my  return  from  church ; 
and,  to  crown  all,  I  heard  your  name  of  Melchior  murmured  by 
the  flower-bells  ;  I  saw  it  written  on  the  clouds  !  Yes,  I  am, 
indeed,  alive,  thanks  to  you — poet  more  beautiful  than  that 
cold  and  prim  Lord  Byron,  whose  face  is  as  dull  as  the  English 
climate.  Wedded  to  you  by  one  only  of  your  Oriental 
glances  which  pierced  my  black  veil,  you  transfused  your 
blood  into  my  veins,  and  it  fired  me  from  head  to  foot.  Ah, 
we  do  not  feel  life  like  that  when  our  mothers  bring  us  into 
the  world  !  A  blow  dealt  to  you  would  fall  on  me  at  the  same 
instant,  and  my  existence  henceforth  can  only  be  accounted 
for  by  your  mind.  I  know  now  the  purpose  of  the  divine 
harmony  of  music;  it  was  invented  by  the  angels  to  express 
love. 

"  To  be  a  genius  and  handsome,  too,  my  Melchior,  is  too 
much.  A  man  should  have  a  choice  at  his  birth.  But  when 
I  think  of  the  treasures  of  tenderness  and  affection  you  have 
lavished  on  me,  especially  during  this  last  month,  I  wonder 
whether  I  am  dreaming  !  Nay,  you  must  be  hiding  some 
mystery.  What  woman  could  give  you  up  without  dying 
of  it  ?  Yes,  jealousy  has  entered  my  heart  with  such  love 
as  I  could  not  believe  in  !  Could  I  imagine  such  a  confla- 
gration ? 

"  A  new  and  inconceivable  vagary  !  I  now  wish  you  were 
ugly  !  What  follies  I  committed  when  I  got  home  !  Every 
yellow  dahlia  reminded  me  of  your  pretty  waistcoat,  every 
white  rose  was  a  friend,  and  I  greeted  them  with  a  look  which 
was  yours,  as  I  am  wholly  !  The  color  of  the  gentleman's 
well-fitting  gloves — everything,  to  the  sound  of  his  step  on 
the  flagstones — everything  is  so  exactly  represented  by  my 
memory  that,  sixty  years  hence,  I  shall  still  see  the  smallest 
details  of  this  high  day,  the  particular  hue  of  the  atmosphere, 


132  MODESTE   MIGNON. 

and  the  gleam  of  the  sunbeam  reflected  from  a  pillar ;  I  shall 
hear  the  prayer  which  your  advent  broke  into  ;  I  shall  breathe 
the  incense  from  the  altar ;  and  I  shall  fancy  that  I  feel  above 
our  heads  the  hands  of  the  priest  who  was  giving  us  the  final 
benediction  just  as  you  went  past.  That  good  Abbe  Mar- 
cellin  has  married  us  already.  The  superhuman  joy  of  ex- 
periencing this  world  of  new  and  unexpected  emotions  can 
only  be  equaled  by  the  joy  I  feel  in  telling  you  of  them,  in 
rendering  up  all  my  happiness  to  him  who  pours  it  into  my 
soul  with  the  unstinting  bounty  of  the  sun.  So  no  more  veils, 
my  beloved !  Come,  oh,  come  back  soon  !  I  will  unmask 
with  joy. 

"You  have,  no  doubt,  heard  of  the  firm  of  Mignon  of  le 
Havre?  Well,  in  consequence  of  an  irreparable  loss,  I  am 
the  sole  heiress  of  the  family.  Do  not  scorn  us,  you  who  are 
descended  from  one  of  the  heroes  of  Auvergne.  The  arms 
of  Mignon  de  la  Bastie  will  not  dishonor  those  of  Canalis. 
They  are  gules,  a  bend  sable  charged  with  three  besants,  in  each 
quarter  a  patriarchal  cross  or,  surmonted  by  a  cardinal's  hat, 
and  the  cord  and  tassels  as  mantling.  My  dear,  I  will  be 
faithful  to  our  motto,  Una  fides,  unus  Dominus  !  One  faith 
and  one  Lord. 

"  Perhaps,  my  friend,  you  will  think  there  is  some  irony  in 
my  name  after  all  I  have  here  confessed.  It  is  Modeste. 
Thus,  I  did  not  altogether  cheat  you  in  signing  '  O.  d'Este-M.' 
Nor  did  I  deceive  you  in  speaking  of  my  fortune ;  it  will,  I 
believe,  amount  to  the  sum  which  has  made  you  so  virtuous. 
And  I  know  so  surely  that  to  you  money  is  so  unimportant 
a  consideration,  that  I  can  write  of  it  unaffectedly.  At  the 
same  time,  you  must  let  me  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  to  be  able 
to  endow  our  happiness  with  the  freedom  of  action  and  move- 
ment that  wealth  gives,  the  power  of  saying,  '  Let  us  go ' 

when  the  fancy  takes  us  to  see  a  foreign  land,  of  flying  off  in 
a  comfortable  carriage,  seated  side  by  side,  without  a  care 
about  money ;  and  happy,  too,  to  give  you  the  right  of  saying 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  133 

to  the  King,  '  I  have  such  a  fortune  as  you  require  in  your 
peers !  ' 

"  In  this,  Modeste  Mignon  can  be  of  some  service  to  you, 
and  her  money  will  find  noble  uses.  As  to  your  humble 
servant,  you  have  seen  her  once,  at  her  window  in  a  wrapper. 
Yes,  the  fair-haired  daughter  of  Eve  was  your  unknown  cor- 
respondent; but  how  little  does  the  Modeste  of  to-day  re- 
semble her  whom  you  then  saw !  She  was  wrapped  in  a 
shroud,  and  this  other — have  I  not  told  you  so? — has  derived 
from  you  the  life  of  life.  Pure  and  permitted  love,  a  love 
that  my  father,  now  at  last  returning  from  his  travels  and  with 
riches,  will  sanction,  has  uplifted  me  with  its  childlike  but 
powerful  hand  from  the  depths  of  the  tomb  where  I  was  sleep- 
ing. You  awoke  me  as  the  sun  awakes  the  flowers.  The 
glance  of  her  you  love  is  not  now  that  of  the  bold-faced  little 
Modeste  !  Oh,  no ;  it  is  bashful,  it  has  glimpses  of  happiness, 
and  veils  itself  under  chaste  eyelids.  My  fear  now  is  that  I 
cannot  deserve  my  lot.  The  King  has  appeared  in  his  glory ; 
my  liege  has  now  a  mere  vassal,  who  implores  his  forgiveness 
for  taking  such  liberties,  as  the  thimble-rigger  with  loaded 
dice  did  after  cheating  the  Chevalier  de  Grammont. 

"  Yes,  beloved  poet,  I  will  be  your  '  Mignon,'  but  a  happier 
Mignon  than  Goethe's,  for  you  will  leave  me  to  dwell  in  my 
native  land,  won't  you? — in  your  heart. 

"As  I  write  this  bridal  wish,  a  nightingale  in  the  Vilquins' 
park  has  just  answered  for  you.  Oh  !  let  me  quickly  hear 
that  the  nightingale,  with  his  long-drawn  note,  so  pure,  so 
clear,  so  full,  inundating  my  heart  with  love  and  gladness, 
like  an  annunciation,  has  not  lied. 

"  My  father  will  pass  through  Paris  on  his  way  from  Mar- 
seilles. The  house  of  Mongenod,  his  correspondents,  will 
know  his  address  ;  go  and  see  him,  my  dearest  Melchior,  tell 
him  that  you  love  me,  and  do  not  try  to  tell  him  how  much 
I  love  you  ;  let  that  be  a  secret  always  between  us  and  God  ! 
I,  dear  adored  one,  will  tell  my  mother  everything.  She,  a 


134  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

daughter  of  Wallenrod  Tustall-Bartenstild,  will  justify  me  by 
her  caresses ;  she  will  be  made  happy  by  our  secret  and  ro- 
mantic poem,  at  once  human  and  divine  !  You  have  the 
daughter's  pledge ;  now  obtain  the  consent  of  the  Comte  de 
la  Bastie,  the  father  of  your  own 

"  MODESTE. 

ft  P.  S. — Above  all,  do  not  come  to  le  Havre  without  having 
obtained  my  father's  permission  ;  and,  if  you  love  me,  you 
will  be  able  to  discover  him  on  his  way  through  Paris." 

"  What  are  you  doing  at  this  time  of  night,  Mademoiselle 
Modeste  ? ' '  asked  Dumay. 

"I  am  writing  to  my  father,"  she  replied  to  the  old  sol- 
dier. "  Did  you  not  tell  me  that  you  were  starting  to-mor- 
row?" 

Dumay  had  no  answer  to  this  and  went  to  bed,  while 
Modeste  wrote  a  long  letter  to  her  father. 

Next  day  Francoise  Cochet,  alarmed  at  seeing  the  Havre 
postmark,  came  up  to  the  chalet  to  deliver  to  her  young  mis- 
tress the  following  letter,  and  carry  away  that  which  Modeste 
had  written : 

To  Mademoiselle  O.  d' Estc-M. 

"  My  heart  warns  me  that  you  were  the  woman,  so  care- 
fully veiled  and  disguised,  placed  between  Monsieur  and  Mad- 
ame Latournelle,  who  have  hut  one  child,  a  son.  Ah,  dearly 
loved  one  !  if  you  are  of  humble  rank,  devoid  of  position, 
distinction,  or  even  fortune,  you  cannot  imagine  what  my  joy 
would  be.  You  must  know  me  by  this  time ;  why  not  tell 
me  the  whole  truth  ?  I  am  no  poet  excepting  through  love, 
in  my  heart,  and  for  you.  Oh,  what  immense  affection  I 
must  have  to  stay  here,  in  this  Hotel  de  Normandie,  and  not 
walk  up  to  Ingouville,  that  I  can  see  from  my  windows ! 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  135 

Will  you  love  me  as  I  love  you  ?  To  have  to  leave  le  Havre 
for  Paris  in  such  uncertainty  !  Is  not  that  being  punished  for 
loving  as  if  I  had  committed  a  crime  ?  I  have  obeyed  you 
blindly. 

(< Ah  !  let  me  soon  have  a  letter;  for,  if  you  are  mysteri- 
ous, I  have  returned  mystery  for  mystery,  and  I  must  at  last 
throw  off  the  mask  of  my  incognito,  and  tell  you  how  little  I 
am  a  poet,  abdicating  the  glory  you  have  lent  me." 

This  letter  greatly  disturbed  Modeste ;  she  could  not  with- 
draw her  own,  which  Francoise  had  already  posted  by  the 
time  she  read  the  last  lines  once  more,  puzzled  as  to  their 
meaning;  but  she  went  up  to  her  room,  and  wrote  an  an- 
swer, asking  for  explanations. 

During  these  little  incidents,  others,  equally  small,  were 
happening  in  the  town,  and  were  destined  to  make  Modeste 
forget  her  uneasiness.  Dumay,  having  gone  early  to  le  Havre, 
at  once  knew  that  no  architect  had  arrived  there  the  night 
before  last.  Furious  at  the  lie  told  him  by  Butscha,  which 
revealed  a  complicity  which  he  was  determined  he  would 
know  the  meaning  of,  he  hurried  from  the  mayor  to  the 
Latournelles. 

"Where  is  your  Master  Butscha?"  asked  he  of  his  friend 
the  notary,  on  not  finding  the  clerk  in  the  office. 

"Butscha,  my  dear  fellow?  He  is  on  the  road  to  Paris, 
whisked  away  by  the  steamboat.  Early  this  morning,  on  the 
quay,  he  met  a  sailor,  who  told  him  that  his  father,  the  Swed- 
ish sailor,  has  come  into  some  money.  Butscha's  father  went 
to  India,  it  would  seem,  and  served  some  prince,  a  Mahratta, 
and  he  is  now  in  Paris " 

"  A  pack  of  lies  !  Shameful !  Monstrous !  Oh,  I  will 
find  that  damned  hunchback  ;  I  am  going  to  Paris,  and  on 
purpose  for  that!"  cried  Dumay.  "Butscha  is  deceiving 
us  !  He  knows  something  about  Modeste,  and  has  never 
told  us.  If  he  dares  meddle  in  the  matter He  shall 


136  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

never  be  a  notary ;  I  will  cast  him  back  on  his  mother,  in  the 
mire,  in  the " 

"  Come,  my  friend,  never  hang  a  man  without  trying 
him,"  replied  Latournelle,  quite  terrified  at  Dumay's  exas- 
peration. 

After  explaining  on  what  his  suspicions  were  founded,  Du- 
may  begged  Madame  Latournelle  to  stay  at  the  chalet  with 
Modeste  during  his  absence. 

"You  will  find  the  colonel  in  Paris,"  said  the  notary. 
"In  the  shipping  news  this  morning,  in  the  'Commerce' 
newspaper,  under  the  heading  of  Marseilles.  Here,  look!" 
he  said,  handing  him  the  sheet,  "The  '  Bettina  Mignon,' 
Captain  Mignon,  arrived  October  i6th,  and  to-day  is  the 
1 7th.  At  this  moment  all  le  Havre  knows  of  the  master's 
return." 

Dumay  requested  Gobenheim  to  dispense  henceforth  with 
his  services ;  he  then  returned  at  once  to  the  chalet,  going  in 
at  the  moment  when  Modeste  had  just  closed  her  letters  to 
her  father  and  to  Canalis.  The  two  letters  were  exactly  alike 
in  shape  and  thickness,  differing  only  in  the  address.  Mod- 
este thought  she  had  laid  that  to  her  father  over  that  to  her 
Melchior,  and  had  done  just  the  reverse.  This  mistake,  so 
common  in  the  trifles  of  life,  led  to  the  discovery  of  her 
secret  by  her  mother  and  Dumay. 

The  lieutenant  was  talking  eagerly  to  Madame  Mignon  in 
the  drawing-room,  confiding  to  her  the  fresh  fears  to  which 
Modeste's  duplicity  and  Butscha's  connivance  had  given  rise. 

"I  tell  you,  madame,"  he  exclaimed,  "he  is  a  viper  we 
have  warmed  on  our  hearth  ;  there  is  not  room  for  a  soul  in 
these  fag-ends  of  humanity." 

Modeste  had  slipped  the  letter  to  her  father  into  her  pocket, 
fancying  that  it  was  the  letter  to  her  lover,  and  went  down 
with  that  addressed  to  Canalis  in  her  hand,  hearing  Dumay 
speak  of  starting  immediately  for  Paris. 

"  What  is  wrong  with  my  poor  mysterious  dwarf,  and  why 


MODESTE  MI G NOW.  137 

are  you  talking  so  loud  ? ' '  said  she  at  the  door  of  the  drawing- 
room. 

"  Butscha,  mademoiselle,  set  out  for  Paris  this  morning, 
and  you,  no  doubt,  can  say  why  !  It  must  be  to  carry  on 
some  intrigue  with  the  so-called  little  architect  in  a  sulphur- 
colored  waistcoat,  who,  unluckily  for  the  hunchback's  false- 
hood, has  not  yet  been  to  le  Havre." 

Modeste  was  startled  ;  she  guessed  that  the  dwarf  had  gone 
off  to  make  his  own  inquiries  as  to  the  poet's  manners  and 
customs  ;  she  turned  pale,  and  sat  down. 

"I  will  be  after  him;  I  will  find  him !"  said  Dumay. 
"That,  no  doubt,  is  the  letter  for  your  father?"  he  added, 
holding  out  his  hand.  "  I  will  send  it  to  Mongenod's — if 
only  my  colonel  and  I  do  not  cross  on  the  way." 

Modeste  gave  him  the  lettter.  Little  Dumay,  who  could 
read  without  spectacles,  mechanically  read  off  the  following 
address — 

"  Monsieur  le  Baron  de  Canalis,  Rue  de  Farad is-Poisson- 
niere,  No.  29!"  he  exclaimed.  "What  is  the  meaning  of 
this?" 

"Ah!  my  child,  then  he  is  the  man  you  love  !"  cried 
Madame  Mignon.  "The  verses  that  you  set  to  music  are  by 
him " 

"  And  it  is  his  portrait  that  you  have  upstairs  in  a  frame !  " 
added  Dumay. 

"  Give  me  back  that  letter,  Monsieur  Dumay,"  said  Mod- 
este, drawing  herself  up,  like  a  lioness  defending  her  cubs. 

"  Here  it  is,  mademoiselle,"  he  replied.  Modeste  slipped 
the  letter  into  her  bosom,  and  held  out  to  Dumay  that  ad- 
dressed to  her  father. 

"  I  know  you  to  be  capable  of  anything,  Dumay,"  said  she ; 
"  but  if  you  move  a  single  step  toward  Monsieur  de  Canalis, 
I  will  take  one  out  of  this  house  and  never  come  back  !  " 

"  You  will  kill  your  mother  !  "  replied  Dumay,  who  went  to 
call  his  wife. 


138  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

The  poor  mother  had  fainted  away,  stricken  to  the  heart  by 
Modeste's  threatening  speech. 

"  Good-by,  wife,"  said  the  Breton,  embracing  the  little 
American.  "  Save  the  mother;  I  am  going  to  save  the 
daughter." 

He  left  Modeste  and  Madame  Dumay  with  Madame  Mignon, 
made  his  preparations  in  a  few  minutes,  and  went  down  to  le 
Havre.  An  hour  later  he  set  off  by  post  with  the  swiftness 
which  passion  or  interest  alone  can  give  to  the  wheels. 

Madame  Mignon  soon  revived  under  her  daughter's  care, 
and  went  up  to  her  room,  leaning  on  Modeste's  arm ;  the 
only  reproach  she  uttered  when  they  were  alone  was  to  say, 
"Unhappy  child  !  what  have  you  done?  Why  hide  anything 
from  me  ?  Am  I  so  stern  ?  ' ' 

"Why,  of  course,  I  was  going  to  tell  you  everything,"  re- 
plied the  girl  in  tears. 

She  told  her  mother  the  whole  story  ;  she  read  her  all  the 
letters  and  replies ;  she  plucked  the  rose  of  her  poem  to 
pieces,  petal  by  petal,  to  lay  in  the  heart  of  the  kind  German 
lady  ;  this  took  up  half  the  day.  When  her  confession  was 
ended,  and  she  saw  something  like  a  smile  on  the  lips  of  the 
too  indulgent  blind  woman,  she  threw  herself  into  her  arms 
with  tears. 

"  Oh,  mother !  "  she  cried,  in  the  midst  of  her  sobs,  "  you 
whose  heart  is  of  gold,  and  all  poetry,  and  like  some  choice 
vessel  moulded  by  God  to  contain  the  one  pure  and  heavenly 
love  that  can  fill  a  whole  life  ! — you  whom  I  long  to  imitate 
by  loving  nothing  on  earth  but  my  husband — you  must  know 
how  bitter  are  these  tears  which  I  shed  at  this  moment,  which 
fall  wet  on  your  hands.  The  butterfly  with  iridescent  wings, 
that  beautiful  second  soul  which  your  daughter  has  cherished 
with  maternal  care — my  love,  my  sacred  love,  that  inspired 
and  living  mystery — has  fallen  into  vulgar  hands  that  will  tear 
its  wings  and  its  veil  under  the  cruel  pretext  of  enlightening 
me,  of  inquiring  whether  genius  is  as  correct  as  a  banker,  if 


MODESTE   MIGNON.  139 

my  Melchior  is  capable  of  amassing  dividends,  if  he  has  some 
love  affair  to  be  unearthed,  if  he  is  not  guilty  in  vulgar  eyes 
of  some  youthful  episode,  which  to  our  love  is  what  a  cloud 
is  to  the  sun.  What  are  they  going  to  do?  Here,  feel  my 
hand ;  I  am  in  a  fever  !  They  will  kill  me  !  " 

Modeste,  seized  by  a  deadly  shivering  fit,  was  obliged  to  go 
to  bed,  alarming  her  mother,  Madame  Latournelle,  and 
Madame  Dumay,  who  nursed  her  while  the  lieutenant  was 
traveling  to  Paris,  whither  the  logic  of  events  transfers  our 
tale  for  the  moment. 

Men  who  are  truly  modest,  like  Ernest  de  la  Briere,  and 
especially  those  who,  though  knowing  their  own  value,  are 
neither  loved  nor  appreciated,  will  understand  the  infinite 
rapture  in  which  the  young  secretary  reveled  as  he  read  Mod- 
este's  letter.  After  discovering  the  wit  and  greatness  of  his 
mind,  his  young  and  guileless  but  wily  mistress  thought  him 
handsome.  This  is  the  supremest  flattery.  Why?  Because 
beauty  is  no  doubt  the  Master's  signature  on  the  work  into 
which  He  has  infused  His  soul ;  it  is  the  divinity  made  mani- 
fest ;  and  to  see  it  where  it  does  not  exist,  to  create  it  by  the 
power  of  an  enchanted  eye,  is — is  it  not  ? — the  crowning 
magic  of  love. 

And  the  poor  young  fellow  could  exclaim  to  himself  with 
the  ecstasy  of  an  applauded  author — 

"  At  last  I  am  loved  !  " 

When  once  a  woman,  a  courtesan,  or  an  innocent  girl  has 
let  the  words  escape  her,  "  How  handsome  you  are  !  "  even 
if  it  be  untrue,  if  the  man  allows  the  subtle  poison  of  the 
words  to  enter  his  brain,  he  is  thenceforth  tied  by  eternal 
bonds  to  the  bewitching  liar,  to  the  truthful  or  deluded 
woman ;  she  is  his  world ;  he  thirsts  for  this  testimony ;  he 
would  never  weary  of  it,  not  even  if  he  were  a  prince. 

Ernest  proudly  paced  his  room ;  he  stood  in  front  of  the 
mirror — three-quarter  face,  in  profile ;  he  tried  to  criticise  his 


140  MODESTE   MIGNON. 

own  features,  but  a  diabolical,  insinuating  voice  said  to  him, 
"  Modeste  is  right  !  "  and  he  came  back  to  the  letter  and 
read  it  again.  He  saw  the  heavenly  fair  one,  he  talked  to 
her!  Then,  in  the  midst  of  his  rapture,  came  the  overwhelm- 
ing thought,  "  She  believes  me  to  be  Canalis,  and  she  is  a 
millionaire !  " 

All  his  happiness  fell  with  a  crash,  as  a  man  falls  when, 
walking  in  his  sleep,  he  has  reached  the  ridge  of  a  roof,  and, 
hearing  a  voice,  steps  forward  and  is  dashed  to  pieces  on  the 
stones. 

"  But  for  the  halo  of  glory,  I  should  be  ugly  !  "  cried  he. 
"What  a  horrible  predicament  I  have  gotten  myself  into  !  " 

La  Briere  was  too  thoroughly  the  man  of  his  letters,  too 
entirely  the  pure  and  noble  soul  he  had  shown  in  them,  to 
hesitate  at  the  voice  of  honor.  He  at  once  resolved  to  go 
and  confess  everything  to  Modeste's  father  if  he  were  in 
Paris,  and  to  inform  Canalis  fully  of  the  outcome  of  their 
very  Parisian  practical  joke.  To  this  sensitive  young  fellow 
the  vastness  of  Modeste's  fortune  was  a  casting  reason.  Above 
all,  he  would  not  be  suspected  of  having  used  the  stimulation 
of  this  correspondence,  though  on  his  side  so  perfectly  sin- 
cere, for  filching  a  fortune.  Tears  stood  in  his  eyes  as  he 
walked  from  his  rooms  in  the  Rue  Chantereine  to  Mongenod 
the  banker's,  whose  prosperity,  connections,  and  prospects 
were  partly  the  work  of  the  minister  to  whom  he  himself  was 
indebted. 

At  the  time  when  la  Briere  was  closeted  with  the  head  of 
the  house  of  Mongenod,  and  acquiring  all  the  information  he 
needed  in  his  strange  position,  such  a  scene  was  taking  place 
in  Canalis'  house  as  Dumay's  hasty  departure  might  have  led 
us  to  expect. 

Dumay,  like  a  true  soldier  of  the  imperial  school,  whose 
blood  had  been  boiling  all  through  his  journey,  conceived  of 
a  poet  as  an  irresponsible  fellow,  a  man  who  fooled  in  rhyme, 
living  in  a  garret,  dressed  in  black  cloth  white  at  all  the 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  141 

seams,  whose  boots  sometimes  had  soles,  whose  linen  was 
anonymous,  who  always  looked  as  if  he  had  just  dropped 
from  the  clouds,  when  he  was  not  scribbling  as  intently  as 
Butscha.  But  the  ferment  that  muttered  in  his  brain  and 
heart  received  a  sort  of  cold  shower-bath  when  he  reached 
the  poet's  handsome  residence,  saw  a  man  cleaning  a  carriage 
in  the  courtyard,  found  himself  in  a  splendid  dining-room 
with  another  servant  dressed  like  a  banker,  to  whom  the 
groom  had  referred  him,  who  looked  him  over  from  head  to 
foot  as  he  said  that  Monsieur  le  Baron  could  not  see  any  one. 

"  Monsieur  le  Baron  has  a  meeting  to-day,"  he  added,  "at 
the  council  of  state." 

"Am  I  right  ?  "  asked  Dumay.  "  Is  this  the  house  of  Mon- 
sieur de  Canalis,  who  writes  poetry  ?  " 

"  Monsieur  le  Baron  de  Canalis,"  said  the  footman,  "  is  no 
doubt  the  great  poet  you  mean  ;  but  is  also  master  of  appeals 
to  the  state  council,  and  attached  to  the  foreign  office." 

Dumay,  who  had  come  to  box  a  rhymester's  ears,  to  use  his 
own  contemptuous  expression,  had  found  a  state  functionary. 
The  drawing-room  where  he  was  kept  waiting,  remarkable  for 
its  magnificence,  presented  to  his  contemplation  the  row  of 
crosses  that  glittered  on  Canalis'  evening  coat,  left  by  the 
servant  over  the  back  of  a  chair.  Presently  he  was  attracted 
by  the  sheen  and  workmanship  of  a  silver-gilt  cup,  and  the 
words,  "The  gift  of  MADAME,"  struck  his  eye.  Opposite 
this,  on  a  bracket,  was  a  Sevres  vase,  over  which  was  engraved, 
"Given  by  Madame  la  Dauphine."  These  silent  warnings 
restored  Dumay  to  his  commonsense,  while  the  manservant 
was  asking  his  master  whether  he  could  receive  a  stranger,  who 
had  come  from  le  Havre  on  purpose  to  see  him — his  name 
Dumay. 

"  What  is  he  like? "  asked  Canalis. 

"  Has  a  good  hat  and  the  red  ribbon." 

At  a  nod  of  assent,  the  man  went  out,  and  returned  an- 
nouncing— 


142  MODESTE   MIGNON. 

"  Monsieur  Dumay." 

When  he  heard  his  own  name,  when  he  stood  before  Canalis 
in  a  study  as  costly  as  it  was  elegant,  his  feet  on  a  carpet  quite 
as  good  as  the  best  in  the  Mignons'  old  house,  when  he  met 
the  glance  prepared  by  the  poet,  who  was  playing  with  the 
tassels  of  a  sumptuous  dressing-gown,  Dumay  was  so  absolutely 
dumfounded  that  he  left  the  great  man  to  speak  first. 

" To  what,  monsieur,  do  I  owe  the  honor  of  this  visit? " 

"  Monsieur,"  Dumay  began,  still  standing. 

"If  you  have  much  to  say,  pray  be  seated,"  said  Canalis, 
interrupting  him ;  and  the  poet  sank  back  into  his  large  easy- 
chair,  and  crossed  his  legs,  raising  the  upper  one  to  r.ock  his 
foot  on  a  level  with  his  eye,  while  staring  hard  at  Dumay, 
who,  to  use  his  own  soldier's  phrase,  "  felt  like  a  dummy." 

"  I  am  listening,  monsieur,"  said  the  poet.  "  My  time  is 
precious;  I  am  due  at  the  office " 

"  Monsieur,"  returned  Dumay,  "  I  will  be  brief.  You  have 
bewitched — how  I  know  not — a  young  lady  at  le  Havre — 
handsome,  rich,  the  last  and  only  hope  of  two  noble  families, 
and  I  have  come  to  ask  you  your  intentions." 

Canalis,  who  for  the  last  three  months  had  been  absorbed 
by  serious  matters,  who  aimed  at  promotion  to  the  grade  of 
commander  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  and  to  be  minister  to  a 
German  court,  had  totally  forgotten  the  letter  from  le  Havre. 

"I?"  cried  he. 

"You,"  replied  Dumay. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Canalis,  smiling,  "  I  know  no  more  what 
you  mean  than  if  you  were  talking  Hebrew.  I  bewitch  a 

young  girl?     I,   who ?"       A  lorldly   smile   curled   the 

poet's  lip.  "  Come,  monsieur.  I  am  not  a  boy  that  I  should 
amuse  myself  by  stealing  poor  wild  fruit  when  I  have  ample 
orchards  open  to  me,  where  the  finest  peaches  in  the  world 
ripen.  All  Paris  knows  where  my  affections  are  placed. 
That  there  should  be  at  le  Havre  a  young  lady  suffering  from 
some  admiration,  of  which  I  am  wholly  unworthy,  for  the 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  143 

verses  I  have  written,  my  dear  sir,  would  not  astonish  me  ! 
Nothing  is  commoner.  Look  there  !  You  see  that  handsome 
ebony-box  inlaid  with  mother-of-pearl,  and  fitted  with  iron 
wrought  as  fine  as  lace.  That  coffer  belonged  to  Pope  Leo  X.; 
it  was  given  to  me  by  the  Duchesse  de  Chaulieu,  who  had  it 
from  the  King  of  Spain.  I  have  devoted  it  to  the  preserva- 
tion of  all  the  letters  I  receive  from  every  part  of  Europe, 
written  by  unknown  women  and  girls.  Oh  !  I  have  the 
greatest  respect  for  those  posies  of  flowers  culled  from  the 
very  soul,  and  sent  to  me  in  a  moment  of  enthusiasm  that  is 
indeed  worthy  of  all  respect.  Yes,  to  me  the  impulse  of  a 
heart  is  a  noble  and  beautiful  thing  !  Others,  mocking  spirits, 
screw  up  such  notes  to  light  their  cigars,  or  give  them  to 
their  wives  for  curl-papers ;  I — who  am  a  bachelor,  monsieur 
— have  too  much  delicate  feeling  not  to  treasure  these  artless 
and  disinterested  offerings  in  a  kind  of  tabernacle ;  indeed,  I 
hoard  them  with  no  little  reverence,  and  when  I  am  dying  I 
will  see  them  burnt  under  my  eyes.  So  much  the  worse  for 
those  who  think  me  ridiculous  !  What  is  to  be  said  ?  I  am 
grateful  by  nature,  and  these  testimonials  help  me  to  endure 
the  criticisms  and  annoyances  of  a  literary  life.  When  I 
receive  in  my  spine  the  broadside  of  an  enemy  in  ambush 
behind  a  newspaper,  I  look  at  that  chest  and  say  to  myself, 
*  There  are,  here  and  there,  a  few  souls  whose  wounds  have 
been  healed,  or  beguiled  or  stanched  by  me ' ' 

This  rodomontade,  pronounced  with  the  cleverness  of  a 
great  actor,  petrified  the  little  cashier,  whose  eyes  dilated 
while  his  astonishment  amused  the  great  poet. 

"To  you,"  the  peacock  went  on,  still  spreading  his  tail, 
"out  of  respect  for  a  position  I  can  sympathize  with,  I  can 
but  propose  that  you  should  open  that  treasury  and  look  there 
for  your  young  lady ;  but  I  never  forget  names.  I  know  what 
I  am  saying,  and  you  are  mistaken." 

"  And  this  is  what  happens  to  a  poor  girl  in  this  gulf  called 
Paris  !  "  cried  Dumay.  "  The  idol  of  her  parents,  the  delight 


144  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

of  her  friends,  the  hope,  the  darling  of  them  all;  the  pride 
of  her  family,  for  whom  six  persons  have  made  a  rampart 
of  their  hearts  and  their  fortunes  against  disaster !  " 

Dumay  paused,  and  then  went  on — 

"  Well,  monsieur,  you  are  a  great  poet,  and  I  am  but  a  poor 
soldier.  For  fifteen  years,  while  I  served  my  country  in  the 
ranks,  I  felt  the  wind  of  many  a  bullet  in  my  face,  I  crossed 
Siberia,  where  I  was  kept  a  prisoner,  the  Russians  flung  me  on 
a  truck  like  a  bale  of  goods,  I  have  endured  everything ;  I 
have  seen  no  end  of  my  comrades  die And  you,  mon- 
sieur, have  sent  such  a  chill  through  my  bones  as  I  never  felt 
before !  " 

Dumay  believed  that  he  had  touched  the  poet;  he  had 
flattered  him — an  almost  impossible  achievement,  for  the  am- 
bitious man  had  by  this  time  forgotten  the  first  phial  of  pre- 
cious balm  that  praise,  it  seemed  now  long  past,  had  broken 
on  his  head. 

"You  see,  my  brave  friend,"  said  the  poet  solemnly,  as  he 
laid  his  hand  on  Dumay's  shoulder,  feeling  it  a  strange  thing 
that  he  should  be  able  to  make  a  soldier  of  the  Empire  shiver, 

"  this  girl  is  everything  to  you But  to  society,  what  is 

she?  Nothing.  If  at  this  moment  the  most  important  man- 
darin in  China  is  closing  his  eyes  and  putting  the  Empire  into 
mourning,  does  that  grieve  you  deeply?  In  India  the  Eng- 
lish are  killing  thousands  of  men  as  good  as  we  are ;  and  at 
this  moment,  as  I  speak,  the  most  charming  woman  is  there 
being  burnt — but  you  have  had  coffee  for  breakfast  all  the 
same?  Indeed,  at  this  minute,  here  in  Paris,  you  may  find 
several  mothers  of  families  lying  on  straw  and  bringing  a  child 
into  the  world  without  a  rag  to  wrap  it  in  !  And  here  is  some 
delicious  tea  in  a  cup  that  cost  five  louis,  and  I  am  writing 
verses  to  make  the  ladies  of  Paris  exclaim,  '  Charming,  charm- 
ing! divine,  exquisite  !  it  goes  to  the  heart.?1 

"Social  nature,  like  mother  nature  herself,  is  great  at  for- 
getting. Ten  years  hence  you  will  be  amazed  at  the  step  you 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  145 

have  taken.  You  are  in  a  city  where  we  die,  and  marry,  and 
worship  each  other  at  an  assignation  ;  where  a  girl  suffocates 
herself,  while  a  man  of  genius  and  his  cargo  of  ideas  full  of 
humanitarian  benefits  go  to  the  bottom,  side  by  side,  often 
under  the  same  roof,  and  knowing  nothing  of  each  other. 
And  you  come  and  expect  us  to  swoon  with  anguish  at  this 
commonplace  question,  '  Is  a  certain  young  person  at  le  Havre 
this  or  that,  or  is  she  not? '  Oh,  you  really  are " 

"  And  you  call  yourself  a  poet !  "  cried  Dumay.  "  But  do 
you  really  feel  nothing  of  what  you  depict?" 

"If  we  felt  all  the  misery  or  joy  that  we  describe,  we  should 
be  worn  out  in  a  few  months,  like  old  shoes,"  said  the  poet, 
smiling.  "Listen,  you  shall  not  have  come  from  le  Havre 
to  Paris,  and  to  me,  Canalis,  without  having  something  to 
take  back  with  you.  Soldier  !  " — and  Canalis  had  the  figure 
and  gesture  of  an  Homeric  hero — "learn  this  from  the  poet, 
'  Every  noble  feeling  in  each  of  us  is  a  poem  so  essentially 
individual  that  our  best  friend,  our  self,  takes  no  interest  in  it. 
It  is  a  treasure  belonging  to  each  alone ' ; 

"  Forgive  me  for  interrupting  you,"  said  Dumay,  who 
gazed  at  Canalis  with  horror,  "  but  have  you  been  to  le 
Havre?" 

"  I  spent  a  night  and  day  there  in  the  spring  of  1824  on 
my  way  to  London." 

"  You  are  a  man  of  honor,"  Dumay  went  on.  "  Can  you 
give  me  your  word  of  honor  that  you  do  not  know  Mademoi- 
selle Modeste  Mignon?" 

"This  is  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  her  name,"  replied 
Canalis. 

"Oh,  monsieur,"  cried  Dumay,  "into  what  dark  intrigue 
am  I  about  to  plunge  ?  May  I  count  on  you  to  help  me  in 
my  inquiries  ?  For  some  one,  I  am  certain,  has  been  making 
use  of  your  name.  You  ought  to  have  received  a  letter  yes- 
terday from  le  Havre." 

"  I  have  received  nothing !  You  may  be  sure,  monsieur, 
10 


146  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

that  I  will  do  all  that  lies  in  my  power  to  be  of  service  to 
you." 

Dumay  took  leave,  his  heart  full  of  anxiety,  believing  that 
hideous  little  Butscha  had  hidden  himself  in  the  semblance 
of  the  great  poet  to  captivate  Modeste;  while  Butscha,  on 
the  contrary,  as  keen  and  clever  as  a  prince  who  avenges 
himself,  sharper  than  a  spy,  was  making  inquisition  into  the 
poet's  life  and  actions,  escaping  detection  by  his  insignifi- 
cance like  an  insect  working  its  way  into  the  young  wood  of 
a  tree. 

The  Breton  had  but  just  left  when  la  Briere  came  into  his 
friend's  room.  Canalis  naturally  mentioned  the  visit  of  this 
man  from  le  Havre. 

"Hah!  "  said  Ernest,  "Modeste  Mignon  !  I  have  come 
on  purpose  to  speak  about  that  affair." 

"  Bless  me  !  "  cried  Canalis,  "  do  you  mean  to  say  I  have 
made  a  conquest  by  proxy?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  that  is  the  turning-point  of  the  drama.  My 
friend,  I  am  loved  by  the  sweetest  girl  in  the  world,  beautiful 
enough  to  shine  among  the  beauties  of  Paris,  with  a  heart  and 
education  worthy  of  Clarissa  Harlowe ;  she  has  seen  me,  she 
likes  my  looks — and  she  believes  me  to  be  the  great  poet 
Canalis. 

"  Nor  is  this  all :  Modeste  Mignon  is  of  good  birth,  and 
Mongenod  has  just  told  me  that  her  father,  the  Comte  de  la 
Bastie,  must  have  a  fortune  of  something  like  six  millions  of 
francs.  This  father  has  come  home  within  three  days,  and  I 
have  just  begged  him  to  arrange  an  interview  with  me,  at  two 
o'clock — through  Mongenod,  who  in  his  note  mentioned  that 
it  concerned  his  daughter's  happiness.  You  will  understand 
that  before  meeting  the  father  I  was  bound  to  tell  you  every- 
thing." 

"Among  all  the  blossoms  that  open  to  the  sunshine  of 
fame,"  said  Canalis  with  emphasis,  "there  is  one  glorious 
plant  which,  like  the  orange,  bears  its  golden  fruit  amid  the 


MODESTE   MIGNON,  147 

thousand  united  perfumes  of  wit  and  beauty !  one  elegant 
shrub,  one  true  passion,  one  perfect  happiness — and  it  has 
evaded  me  !  "  Canalis  kept  his  eyes  on  the  carpet  that 
Ernest  might  not  read  them.  "  How,"  he  went  on  after  a 
pause,  to  recover  his  presence  of  mind,  "  how  is  it  possible, 
among  the  intoxicating  scents  of  these  fancy-paper  notes,  and 
these  phrases  that  mount  to  the  brain,  to  detect  the  genuine 
heart — the  girl,  the  woman,  in  whom  true  love  is  hidden 
under  the  livery  of  flattery,  who  loves  us  for  ourselves,  and 
who  offers  us  happiness  ?  No  one  could  do  it  but  an  angel  or 
a  demon,  and  I  am  only  an  ambitious  master  of  appeals ! 

"Ah,  my  dear  fellow,  fame  transforms  us  into  a  butt,  a 
target  for  a  thousand  arrows.  One  of  us  owed  his  marriage 
to  a  copy  of  hydraulic  verses  ;  and  I,  even  more  ingratiating, 
more  the  ladies'  man  than  he,  shall  have  missed  my  chance 
— for  you  love  this  poor  girl?"  said  he,  looking  intently  at 
la  Briere. 

"Oh!  "  cried  la  Briere. 

"Well,  then,  be  happy,  Ernest,"  said  the  poet,  taking  his 
friend's  arm  and  leaning  on  it.  "As  it  turns  out,  I  shall  not 
have  been  ungrateful  to  you  !  You  are  handsomely  rewarded 
for  your  devotion,  for  I  will  be  generously  helpful  to  your 
happiness." 

Canalis  was  furious,  but  he  could  not  behave  otherwise,  so 
he  took  the  benefit  of  his  ill-luck  by  using  it  as  a  pedestal.  A 
tear  rose  to  the  young  secretary's  eye ;  he  threw  his  arms  about 
Canalis  and  embraced  him. 

"  Oh,  Canalis,  I  did  not  half  know  you  !  " 

"  What  did  you  expect  ?  It  takes  time  to  travel  around  the 
world,"  replied  the  poet  with  emphatic  irony. 

"Consider,"  said  la  Briere,  "that  immense  fortune?— 

"Well,  my  friend,  will  it  not  be  in  good  hands?"  cried 
Canalis,  pointing  his  effusiveness  by  a  charming  gesture. 

"Melchior,"  said  la  Briere,  "I  am  yours  in  life  and 
death." 


148  MODESTE   MIGNON. 

He  wrung  the  poet's  hands  and  went  away  hastily ;  he  was 
eager  to  see  Monsieur  Mignon. 

At  this  hour  the  Comte  de  la  Bastie  was  suffering  all  the 
sorrows  that  had  been  lurking  for  him  as  their  prey.  He  had 
learned  from  his  daughter's  letter  the  facts  of  Bettina  Car- 
oline's death  and  her  mother's  blindness;  and  Dumay  had 
just  told  him  the  story  of  the  terrible  imbroglio  of  Modeste's 
love  affair. 

"Leave  me  to  myself,"  he  said  to  his  faithful  friend. 

When  the  lieutenant  had  closed  the  door,  the  unhappy 
father  threw  himself  on  a  couch  and  lay  there,  his  head  in  his 
hands,  shedding  the  few  thin  tears  that  lie  without  falling  un- 
der the  eyelids  of  a  man  of  fifty-six,  wetting  them,  but  drying 
quickly  and  rising  again,  the  last  dews  of  the  autumn  of  human 
life. 

"To  have  children  you  love  and  a  wife  you  adore  is  to 
have  many  hearts  and  offer  them  all  to  the  dagger!"  cried 
he,  starting  to  his  feet  with  a  furious  bound  and  pacing  the 
room.  "To  be  a  father  is  to  give  one's  self  over  to  misfortune, 
bound  hand  and  foot.  If  I  meet  that  fellow  d'Estournyl  will 
kill  him.  Daughters!  Who  would  have  daughters?  One 
gets  hold  of  a  scoundrel;  and  the  other,  my  Modeste,  of  what? 
A  coward,  who  deludes  her  under  the  gilt-paper  armor  of  a 
poet.  If  only  it  were  Canalis !  There  would  be  no  great 
harm  done.  But  this  Scapin  of  a  lover  !  I  will  throttle  him 
with  my  own  hands  !  "  said  he  to  himself,  with  an  involuntary 
gesture  of  energetic  atrocity.  "And  what  then,"  he  thought,, 
"  if  my  child  should  die  of  grief?  " 

Mechanically  he  looked  out  of  the  window  of  the  Hotel  des 
Princes,  and  came  back  to  sit  down  on  the  divan,  where  he 
remained  motionless.  The  fatigue  of  six  voyages  to  the 
Indies,  the  anxieties  of  investments,  the  dangers  he  had  met 
and  escaped,  care  and  sorrow  had  silvered  Charles  Mignon's 
hair.  His  fine  military  face,  clean  in  outline,  was  bronzed 


MODES TE  MIGNON.  149 

by  the  sun  of  Malaysia,  China,  and  Asia  Minor,  and  had 
assumed  an  imposing  expression,  which  grief  at  this  moment 
made  sublime. 

"And  Mongenod  tells  me  I  can  perfectly  trust  the  young 
man  who  is  to  come  to  speak  to  me  about  my  daughter ! " 

Ernest  de  la  Briere  was  just  then  announced  by  one  of  the 
servants  whom  the  Comte  de  la  Bastie  had  attached  to  him  in 
the  course  of  these  four  years,  and  had  picked  out  from  the 
crowd  of  men  under  him. 

"  You  come,  monsieur,  with  an  introduction  from  my  friend 
Mongenod?"  said  he. 

"Yes,"  replied  Ernest,  gazing  timidly  at  a  face  as  gloomy 
as  Othello's.  "  My  name  is  Ernest  de  la  Briere,  connected, 
monsieur,  with  the  family  of  the  late  prime  minister ;  I  was  his 
private  secretary  when  he  was  in  office.  At  his  fall,  his  excel- 
lency was  good  enough  to  place  me  in  the  court  of  exchequer, 
where  I  am  now  a  first-class  referendary,  and  where  I  may  rise 
to  be  a  master " 

"And  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  Mademoiselle  de  la 
Bastie?"  asked  Charles  Mignon. 

"  Monsieur,  I  love  her,  and  it  is  my  unhoped-for  happiness 
to  be  loved  by  her.  Listen,  monsieur,"  said  Ernest,  inter- 
rupting a  terrible  movement  on  the  part  of  the  angry  father, 
"  I  have  the  strangest  confession  to  make  to  you,  the  most 
ignominious  for  a  man  of  honor.  And  the  worst  punishment 
of  my  conduct,  which  perhaps  was  natural,  is  not  this  rev- 
elation to  you — I  dread  the  daughter  even  more  than  the 
father." 

Ernest  then  told  the  prologue  of  this  domestic  drama, 
quite  simply,  and  with  the  dignity  of  sincerity;  he  did  not 
omit  the  twenty  and  odd  letters  they  had  exchanged — he  had 
brought  them  with  him — nor  the  interview  he  had  just  had 
with  Canalis.  When  the  father  had  read  all  these  letters,  the 
poor  lover,  pale  and  suppliant,  quaked  before  the  fiery  looks 
of  the  Provencal. 


150  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

"Well,  monsieur,"  said  Mignon,  "in  all  this,  there  is 
only  one  mistake,  but  it  is  all-important.  My  daughter  has 
not  six  millions  of  francs ;  her  fortune  at  most  is  two  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  in  settlement,  and  very  doubtful  expec- 
tations." 

"  Oh,  monsieur !  "  cried  Ernest,  throwing  his  arms  around 
Charles  Mignon  and  hugging  him,  "  you  relieve  me  of  a 
load  that  oppressed  me.  Now,  perhaps,  nothing  will  come  in 
the  way  of  my  happiness  !  I  have  interest ;  I  shall  soon  be 
master  of  the  exchequer.  If  she  had  but  ten  thousand  francs, 
if  I  had  to  accept  nominal  settlements,  Mademoiselle  Mignon 
would  still  be  the  wife  of  my  choice ;  and  to  make  her  happy, 
as  happy  as  you  have  made  yours,  to  be  a  true  son  to  you — 
yes,  monsieur,  for  my  father  is  dead — this  is  the  deepest  wish 
of  my  heart." 

Charles  Mignon  drew  back  three  steps,  and  fixed  on  la 
Briere  a  look  that  sank  into  the  young  man's  eyes,  as  a  pon- 
iard goes  into  its  sheath ;  then  he  stood  silent,  reading  in 
those  fascinated  eyes  and  on  that  eager  countenance  the  most 
perfect  candor  and  the  purest  truthfulness. 

"Is  fate  at -last  wearied  out?"  said  he  to  himself  in  an 
undertone.  "  Can  I  have  found  a  paragon  son-in-law  in  this 
youth  ?  "  He  walked  up  and  down  the  room  in  great  excite- 
ment. 

"Well,  monsieur,"  he  said  at  length,  "you  owe  implicit 
obedience  to  the  sentence  you  have  come  to  ask,  for  otherwise 
you  would  at  this  moment  be  acting  a  mere  farce." 

"  Indeed,  monsieur " 

"Listen  to  me,"  said  the  father,  nailing  la  Briere  to  the 
spot  by  a  look.  "  I  will  be  neither  severe,  nor  hard,  nor  un- 
just. You  must  take  the  disadvantages  with  the  advantages 
of  the  false  position  in  which  you  have  placed  yourself.  My 
daughter  imagines  that  she  is  in  love  with  one  of  the  great 
poets  of  our  day,  whose  fame  chiefly  has  fascinated  her. 
Well,  then,  ought  not  I,  as  her  father,  to  enable  her  to  choose 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  151 

between  the  celebrity  which  has  seemed  a  lighthouse  to  her, 
and  the  humble  reality  thrown  to  her  by  chance  in  the  irony 
it  so  often  allows  itself?  Must  she  not  be  free  to  choose  be- 
tween you  and  Canalis.  I  trust  to  your  honor  to  be  silent  as 
to  what  I  have  just  told  you  concerning  the  state  of  my  af- 
fairs. You  and  your  friend,  the  Baron  de  Canalis,  must  come 
to  spend  the  last  fortnight  of  this  month  of  October  at  le 
Havre.  My  house  will  be  open  to  you  both ;  my  daughter 
will  have  the  opportunity  of  knowing  you.  Remember,  you 
yourself  are  to  bring  your  rival,  and  to  allow  him  to  believe 
all  the  fables  that  may  be  current  as  to  the  Comte  de  la 
Bastie's  millions.  I  shall  be  at  le  Havre  by  to-morrow,  and 
shall  expect  you  three  days  later.  Good-morning,  mon- 
sieur." 

Poor  la  Briere  very  slowly  made  his  way  back  to  Canalis. 
At  that  moment  the  poet,  face  to  face  with  himself,  could 
give  himself  up  to  the  torrent  of  reflections  that  flow  from 
that  "  second  thought  "  which  Talleyrand  so  highly  praised. 
The  first  thought  is  the  impulse  of  nature,  the  second  that  of 
society. 

"  A  girl  with  six  millions  of  francs  !  And  my  eyes  failed 
to  discern  the  glitter  of  that  gold  through  the  darkness ! 
With  such  a  fortune  as  that,  I  can  be  a  peer  of  France,  count, 
ambassador !  I  have  answered  the  most  ordinary  women, 
simpletons,  intriguing  girls  who  only  wanted  an  autograph ! 
And  I  rebelled  against  these  bal  masque  wiles  on  the  very  day 
when  heaven  sent  me  a  chosen  soul,  an  angel  with  wings  of 
gold  !  Pooh  !  I  will  write  a  sublime  poem,  and  the  chance 
will  come  again  !  What  luck  for  that  little  la  Briere,  who 
spread  his  tail  in  my  sunbeams  !  And  what  plagiary.  I  am 
the  model,  and  he  is  to  be  the  statue !  This  is  playing  the 
fable  of  'Bertrand  and  Raton.'  Six  millions,  and  an  angel, 
a  Mignon  de  la  Bastie  !  An  aristocratic  angel,  who  loves 
poetry  and  the  poet  !  And  I  meanwhile  display  my  muscles 
as  a  strong  man,  perform  athletics,  like  Alcides,  to  astonish 


152  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

this  champion  of  physical  strength  by  moral  force — this  brave 
soldier  full  of  fine  feeling,  this  young  girl's  friend,  who  will 
tell  her  I  have  a  soul  of  iron.  I  am  playing  Napoleon,  when 
I  ought  to  show  myself  as  a  seraph  !  I  shall  have  won  a 
friend  perhaps,  and  have  paid  dear  for  him ;  but  friendship  is 
a  fine  thing.  Six  millions — that  is  the  price  of  a  friend ;  a 
man  cannot  have  many  at  that  figure  !  ' ' 

At  this  last  point  of  exclamation  la  Briere  came  into  his 
friend's  room  ;  he  was  depressed. 

"Well,  what  is  the  matter?  "  said  Canalis. 

"  The  father  insists  that  his  daughter  shall  be  enabled  to 
choose  between  the  two  Canalis " 

"Poor  boy  !  "  said  the  poet,  laughing.  "  A  clever  man  is 
that  father  !  " 

"  I  have  pledged  my  honor  to  take  you  to  le  Havre,"  said 
la  Briere  dolefully. 

"My  dear  boy,"  said  Canalis,  "if  your  honor  is  at  stake, 
you  may  depend  upon  me.  I  will  ask  for  a  month's  leave  of 
absence. ' ' 

"Oh,  Modeste  is  lovely!"  cried  la  Briere  in  despair, 
"  and  you  will  easily  extinguish  me  !  Still,  I  was  amazed  to 
find  good  fortune  coming  my  way ;  I  said  to  myself,  it  is  all 
a  mistake !  " 

"Pooh!  We  shall  see,"  said  Canalis  with  ruthless  cheer- 
fulness. 

That  evening,  after  dinner,  Charles  Mignon  and  his  cashier 
were  flying,  at  the  cost  of  three  francs  a  stage  to  the  pos- 
tillion, from  Paris  to  le  Havre.  The  father  had  completely 
allayed  his  watch-dog's  alarms  as  to  Modeste's  love  affairs,  had 
released  him  from  his  responsibilities,  and  reassured  him  as  to 
Butscha's  proceedings. 

"Everything  is  for  the  best,  my  good  old  friend,"  said 
Charles,  who  had  made  inquiries  of  Mongenod  as  to  Canalis 
and  la  Briere.  "We  have  two  players  for  one  part,"  he 
added,  laughing. 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  153 

At  the  same  time,  he  enjoined  absolute  silence  on  his  old 
comrade  as  to  the  comedy  about  to  be  played  at  the  chalet 
and  his  gentle  revenge,  or,  if  you  will,  the  lesson  to  be  giveii 
by  a  father  to  his  child.  From  Paris  to  le  Havre  was  one 
long  dialogue  between  the  friends,  by  which  the  colonel 
learned  the  smallest  events  that  had  happened  in  his  family 
during  the  past  four  years;  and  Charles  told  Dumay  that 
Desplein,  the  great  surgeon,  was  to  come  before  the  end  of 
the  month  to  examine  the  Countess'  eyes  and  decide  whether 
it  would  be  possible  to  remove  the  cataract  and  restore  her 
sight. 

A  few  minutes  before  the  breakfast  hour  at  the  chalet,  the 
cracking  of  a  whip,  by  a  postillion  counting  on  a  large  gra- 
tuity, announced  the  return  of  the  two  soldiers.  Only  the  joy 
of  a  father  coming  home  to  his  family  after  a  long  absence 
would  give  rise  to  such  a  detonation,  and  all  the  women  were 
standing  at  the  little  gate. 

There  are  so  many  fathers,  and  so  many  children — more 
fathers  perhaps  than  children — who  can  enter  the  excitement 
of  such  a  meeting,  that  literature  is  never  required  to  depict  it ; 
happily  !  for  the  finest  words,  and  poetry  itself,  are  inadequate 
to  such  emotions.  Perhaps,  indeed,  the  sweeter  emotions 
have  no  literary  side. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  that  day  that  could  disturb  the 
happiness  of  the  Mignon  family.  There  was  a  truce  between 
the  father,  the  mother,  and  the  daughter  as  to  the  mysterious 
love  affair  which  had  paled  Modeste's  cheek.  She  was  up  to- 
day for  the  first  time.  The  colonel,  with  the  delicate  tender- 
ness that  characterizes  a  true  soldier,  sat  all  the  time  by  his 
wife's  side,  her  hand  constantly  held  in  his,  and  he  watched 
Modeste,  never  tired  of  admiring  her  refined,  elegant,  and 
poetic  beauty.  Is  it  not  by  such  small  things  that  we  know  a 
man  of  true  feeling? 

Modeste,  fearful  of  troubling  the  melancholy  happiness  of 
her  father  and  mother,  came  from  time  to  time  to  kiss  the 


154  MODESTE   MIGNON. 

traveler's  brow,  and  by  kissing  him  so  often  seemed  to  wish 
to  kiss  him  for  two. 

"  Ah,  darling  child  !  I  understand  you,"  said  her  father, 
pressing  Modeste's  hand  at  a  moment  when  she  was  smother- 
ing him  with  affection. 

"Hush!  "  whispered  Modeste  in  his  ear,  pointing  to  her 
mother. 

Dumay's  rather  perfidious  silence  left  Modeste  very  uneasy 
as  to  the  results  of  his  journey  to  Paris ;  she  now  and  then 
stole  a  look  at  the  lieutenant,  but  could  not  penetrate  that 
tough  skin.  The  colonel,  as  a  prudent  father,  wished  to 
study  his  only  daughter's  nature,  and,  above  all,  to  consult 
his  wife,  before  proceeding  to  a  discussion  on  which  the  hap- 
piness of  the  whole  family  would  depend. 

"To-morrow,  my  dearest  child,  rise  early,"  said  he  at 
night,  "  and,  if  it  is  fine,  we  will  go  for  a  walk  together  on 
the  seashore.  We  have  to  talk  over  your  poems,  Mademoiselle 
de  la  Bastie." 

These  words,  spoken  with  a  smile  that  was  reflected  on 
Dumay's  lips,  were  all  Modeste  could  know ;  still,  this  was 
enough  to  allay  her  anxiety  and  to  make  her  too  curious  to 
get  to  sleep  till  late,  so  busy  was  her  fancy. 

Next  morning  Modeste  was  dressed  and  ready  before  the 
colonel. 

"You  know  everything,  my  dear  father,"  said  she,  as  soon 
as  they  had  started  on  their  way  to  the  sea. 

"  I  know  everything — and  a  good  many  things  that  you  do 
not  know,"  replied  he. 

Thereupon  the  father  and  daughter  walked  some  few  steps 
in  silence. 

"Now,  tell  me,  my  child,  how  a  daughter  so  worshiped  by 
her  mother  could  take  so  decisive  a  step  as  to  write  to  a  man 
unknown  to  her  without  asking  that  mother's  advice?  " 

"  Well,  papa,  because  mamma  would  not  have  allowed  it," 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  155 

«  And  do  you  think,  my  child,  that  it  was  right  ?  Though 
you  have  inevitably  been  left  to  bring  yourself  up,  how 
is  it  that  your  reason  or  your  insight  — if  modesty  Vailed 
you— did  not  tell  you  that  to  act  in  such  a  way  was  to  throw 
yourself  at  a  man's  head?  Can  it  be  that  my  daughter,  my 
only  child,  lacks  pride  and  delicacy  ?  Oh  !  Modeste,  you 
gave  your  father  two  hours  of  hell's  torments  in  Paris  j  for,  in 
point  of  fact  your  conduct,  morally,  has  been  the  same  as 
Bettina's,  without  having  the  excuse  of  seduction ;  you  have 
been  a  coquette  in  cold  blood,  and  that  is  love  without  heart, 
the  worst  vice  of  the  Frenchwoman." 

"  I— without  pride  ?  "  said  Modeste  in  tears.  "  But  he  has 
never  seen  me  !  " 

"He  knows  your  name." 

"  I  never  let  him  know  it  till  the  moment  when  our  eyes 
had  set  the  seal  to  three  months  of  correspondence,  during 
which  our  souls  had  spoken  to  each  other !  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear  mistaken  angel,  you  have  brought  a  kind 
of  reason  to  bear  on  this  madness  which  has  compromised 
your  happiness  and  your  family." 

"  Well,  after  all,  papa,  happiness  is  the  justification  of  such 
boldness,"  said  she,  with  a  touch  of  temper. 

"Ah  !     Then  it  is  merely  boldness?  "  cried  her  father. 

"Such  boldness  as  my  mother  allowed  herself,"  she  an- 
swered hastily. 

"  Refractory  child  !  Your  mother,  after  meeting  me  at  a 
ball,  told  her  father,  who  adored  her,  the  same  evening  that 
she  believed  she  could  be  happy  with  me.  Now,  be  candid, 
Modeste ;  is  there  any  resemblance  between  love,  at  first  sight 
it  is  true,  but  under  a  father's  eye,  and  the  mad  act  of  writing 
to  an  unknown  man  ?" 

"  An  unknown  man  ?  Nay,  papa,  one  of  our  greatest  poets, 
whose  character  and  life  are  under  the  light  of  day,  exposed 
to  gossip  and  calumny  ;  a  man  clothed  in  glory,  to  whom, 
my  dear  father,  I  was  but  a  dramatic,  literary  personage — a 


156  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

girl  of  Shakespeare's — until  the  moment  when  I  felt  I  must 
know  whether  the  man  was  as  attractive  as  his  soul  is  beau- 
tiful." 

"  Bless  me,  my  poor  child,  you  are  dreaming  of  poetry  in 
connection  with  marriage.  But  if  in  all  ages  girls  have  been 
cloistered  in  the  family ;  if  God  and  social  law  have  placed 
them  under  the  stern  yoke  of  parental  sanction,  it  is  precisely 
and  on  purpose  to  spare  them  the  misfortunes  to  which  the 
poetry  that  fascinates  you  must  lead  while  it  dazzles  you,  and 
which  you  therefore  cannot  estimate  at  its  true  worth.  Poetry 
is  one  of  the  graces  of  life;  it  is  not  the  whole  of  life." 

"  Papa,  it  is  an  action  for  ever  undecided  before  the  tri- 
bunal of  facts,  for  there  is  a  constant  struggle  between  our 
hearts  and  the  family  authority." 

"Woe  to  the  girl  who  should  find  happiness  by  means  of 
such  resistance  !"  said  the  colonel  gravely.  "In  1813  one 
of  my  fellow-officers,  the  Marquis  d'Aiglemont,  married  his 
cousin  against  her  father's  warnings,  and  the  household  paid 
dearly  for  the  obstinacy  that  a  girl  could  mistake  for  love. 
In  these  matters  the  family  is  supreme." 

"  My  fiance  has  told  me  all  that,"  said  she.  "  He  assumed 
the  part  of  Orgon  for  some  time,  and  had  the  courage  to  run 
down  the  personal  character  of  poets." 

"I  have  read  the  correspondence,"  said  her  father,  with  a 
meaning  smile  that  made  Modeste  uneasy.  "And  I  may,  on 
that  point,  remark  that  your  last  letter  would  hardly  be  allow- 
able in  a  girl  who  had  been  seduced — in  a  Julie  d'Etanges. 
Good  God  !  what  mischief  comes  of  romances!  " 

"  If  they  were  never  written,  my  dear  father,  we  should 
still  enact  them.  It  is  better  to  read  them.  There  are  fewer 
romantic  adventures  now  than  in  the  time  of  Louis  XIV.  and 
Louis  XV.,  when  fewer  novels  were  published.  Beside,  if  you 
have  read  our  letters,  you  must  have  perceived  that  I  have  found 
you  for  a  son-in-law  the  most  respectful  son,  the  most  angelic 
nature,  the  strictest  honestv,  and  that  we  love  each  other  at 


MODESTE  M1GNON.  157 

least  as  much  as  you  and  mamma  did.  Well,  I  will  admit 
that  the  affair  has  not  been  conducted  exactly  as  etiquette 
requires.  I  made  a  mistake,  if  you  like " 

"I  have  read  your  letters,"  repeated  her  father,  interrupt- 
ing her,  "so  I  know  how  he  justified  you  in  your  own  eyes 
for  a  step  which  might  perhaps  be  excusable  in  a  woman  who 
knows  life,  who  is  carried  away  by  passion,  but  which  in  a 
girl  of  twenty  is  a  monstrous  fault ' ' 

"  A  fault  in  common  people's  eyes,  in  those  of  narrow- 
minded  Gobenheims,  who  measure  out  life  with  a  T-square  ! 
But  do  not  let  us  go  beyond  the  artistic  and  poetic  world, 
papa.  We  young  girls  live  between  two  alternatives:  we 
may  show  a  man  that  we  love  him  by  mincing  graces,  or  we 
may  go  to  meet  him  frankly.  And  is  not  this  last  method 
really  great  and  noble  ?  We  French  girls  are  disposed  of  by 
our  family  like  merchandise,  at  three  months'  date,  sometimes 
much  sooner,  like  Mademoiselle  Vilquin ;  but  in  England, 
Switzerland,  and  Germany  they  are  married  more  nearly  on 
the  system  I  have  adopted.  What  can  you  say  to  that  ?  Am 
I  not  half-German?" 

"Child,"  exclaimed  the  colonel,  looking  at  his  daughter, 
"the  superiority  of  France  lies  precisely  in  the  commonsense, 
the  strict  logic  to  which  our  splendid  language  compels  the 
mind.  France  is  the  reason  of  the  world  !  England  and 
Germany  are  romantic  in  this  point ;  but  even  there  the  great 
families  follow  our  custom.  You  girls  would  rather  not  be- 
lieve, then,  that  your  parents,  who  know  life,  have  the  charge 
of  your  souls  and  your  happiness,  and  that  it  is  their  duty  to 
steer  you  clear  of  the  rocks  !  Good  God  !  "  he  went  on,  "  is 
this  their  fault  or  ours  ?  Ought  we  to  bend  our  children  under 
a  yoke  of  iron  ?  Must  we  always  be  punished  for  the  tender- 
ness which  prompts  us  to  make  them  happy,  which,  unfortu- 
nately, makes  them  heart  of  our  heart  !  " 

As  she  heard  this  ejaculation,  spoken  almost  with  tears, 
Modeste  cast  a  side  glance  at  her  father. 


158  MODESTE   M1GNON. 

"Is  it  wrong  in  a  girl  whose  heart  is  free,"  said  she,  "  to 
choose  for  her  husband  a  man  who  is  not  only  charming  in 
himself,  but  who  is  also  a  man  of  genius,  of  good  birth,  and 
in  a  fine  position — a  gentleman  as  gentle  as  myself?" 

"Then  you  love  him?"  said  the  colonel. 

"I  tell  you,  father,"  said  she,  laying  her  head  on  his 
breast,  "  if  you  do  not  want  to  see  me  die " 

"  That  is  enough,"  said  the  colonel,  "  your  passion  is,  I  see, 
unchangeable." 

"  Unchangeable." 

"  Nothing  could  move  you  ?  " 

"  Nothing  in  the  world." 

"You  can  conceive  of  no  alteration,  no  betrayal,"  her 
father  went  on.  "  You  love  him  for  better,  for  worse,  for  the 
sake  of  his  personal  charms ;  and  if  he  should  be  a  d'Estourny, 
you  still  would  love  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  papa,  you  do  not  know  your  child  !  Could  I  love  a 
coward,  a  man  devoid  of  truth  and  honor — a  gallows-bird?  " 

"  Then  supposing  you  have  been  deceived  ?  " 

"  By  that  charming  young  fellow,  so  candid — almost  mel- 
ancholy ?  You  are  laughing  at  me,  or  you  have  not  seen 
him." 

"  I  see;  happily  your  love  is  not  so  imperative  as  you  say. 
I  have  suggested  conditions  which  might  modify  your  poem. 
Well,  then,  you  will  admit  that  fathers  are  of  some  use?  " 

"  You  wanted  to  give  me  a  lesson,  papa — a  sort  of  object- 
lesson,  it  would  seem." 

"Poor  misled  girl  !  "  said  her  father  severely;  "the  lesson 
is  not  of  my  giving ;  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it  beyond 
trying  to  soften  the  blow." 

"  Say  no  more,  papa  ;  do  not  trifle  with  my  very  life,"  said 
Modeste,  turning  pale. 

"  Nay,  my  child,  summon  up  your  courage.  It  is  you 
who  have  trifled  with  life,  and  life  now  laughs  you  to  scorn." 

Modeste  looked  at  her  father  in  bewilderment. 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  159 

"Listen;  if  the  young  man  you  love,  whom  you  saw  in 
church  at  le  Havre  four  days  ago,  were  a  contemptible 
wretch ' ' 

"It  is  not  true!"  said  she.  "That  pale,  dark  face,  so 
noble  and  full  of  poetry " 

"Is  a  lie!  "  said  the  colonel,  interrupting  her.  "He  is 
no  more  Monsieur  de  Canalis  than  I  am  that  fisherman  hauling 
up  his  sail  to  go  out " 

"Do  you  know  what  you  are  killing  in  me?"  returned 
Modeste. 

"  Be  comforted,  my  child ;  though  fate  has  made  your 
fault  its  own  punishment,  the  mischief  is  not  irreparable.  The 
youth  you  saw,  with  whom  you  have  exchanged  hearts  by  cor- 
respondence, is  an  honest  fellow ;  he  came  to  me  to  confess 
his  dilemma.  He  loves  you,  and  I  should  not  object  to  him 
as  a  son-in-law." 

"And  if  he  is  not  Canalis,  who  is  he?"  asked  Modeste, 
in  a  broken  voice. 

"  His  secretary.  His  name  is  Ernest  de  la  Briere.  He  is 
not  of  superior  birth,  but  he  is  one  of  those  average  men, 
with  solid  virtues  and  sound  morals,  whom  parents  like. 
And  what  does  it  matter  to  us,  after  all  ?  You  have  seen 
him ;  nothing  can  change  your  feelings ;  you  have  chosen 
him,  you  know  his  soul — it  is  as  noble  as  he  is  good-looking." 

The  Comte  de  la  Bastie  was  checked  by  a  sigh  from  Mod- 
este. The  poor  child,  perfectly  white,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
sea,  and  as  rigid  as  the  dead,  had  been  struck  as  by  a  pistol- 
shot  by  the  words,  "  One  of  those  average  men,  with  solid  vir- 
tues and  sound  morals,  whom  parents  like." 

"  Deceived  !  "  she  said  at  last. 

"As  your  poor  sister  was,  but  less  seriously." 

"Let  us  go  home,  papa,"  she  said,  rising  from  the  knoll 
on  which  they  had  been  sitting.  "  Listen,  father ;  I  swear 
before  God  to  obey  your  wishes,  whatever  they  may  be,  in  the 
business  of  marriage. ' ' 


160  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

"Then  you  have  already  ceased  to  love?"  asked  her  father 
sarcastically. 

"  I  loved  a  true  man  without  a  falsehood  on  his  face,  as 
honest  as  you  yourself,  incapable  of  disguising  himself  like  an 
actor,  of  dressing  himself  up  in  another  man's  glory." 

"You  said  that  nothing  could  move  you  !  "  said  the  col- 
onel ironically. 

"  Oh,  do  not  make  game  of  me  !  "  cried  she,  clasping  her 
hands,  and  looking  at  her  father  in  an  agony  of  entreaty. 
"You  do  not  know  how  you  are  torturing  my  heart  and  my 
dearest  beliefs  by  your  satire " 

"  God  forbid  !  I  have  said  the  exact  truth." 

"You  are  very  good,  father,"  she  replied,  after  a  pause, 
with  a  certain  solemnity. 

"And  he  has  your  letters  !  Heh?"  said  Charles  Mignon. 
"  If  those  crazy  effusions  of  your  soul  had  fallen  into  the 
hands  of  one  of  those  poets  who,  according  to  Dumay,  use 
them  for  pipe-lights " 

"Oh,  that  is  going  too  far." 

"So  Canalis  told  him." 

"He  saw  Canalis?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  colonel. 

They  walked  on  a  little  way  in  silence. 

"That,  then,"  said  Modeste,  when  they  had  gone  a  few 
steps,  "was  why  that  gentleman  spoke  so  ill  of  poets  and 
poetry  !  Why  did  that  little  secretary  talk  of? But,  how- 
ever," she  added,  interrupting  herself,  "were  not  his  virtues, 
his  qualities,  his  fine  sentiments,  a  mere  epistolary  make-up  ? 
The  man  who  can  steal  another  one's  fame  and  name  may  very 
well " 

"Pick  locks,  rob  the  treasury,  murder  on  the  highway," 
said  Charles  Mignon,  smiling.  "  That  is  just  like  you — you 
girls,  with  your  uncompromising  feelings  and  your  ignorance 
of  life.  A  man  who  can  deceive  a  woman  has  either  escaped 
the  scaffold  or  must  end  there." 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  161 

This  raillery  checked  Modeste's  effervescence,  and  again 
they  were  both  silent. 

"My  child,"  the  colonel  added,  "men  in  the  world— as 
in  nature,  for  that  matter — are  bound  to  try  to  win  your 
hearts,  and  you  to  defend  them.  You  have  reversed  the  posi- 
tion. Is  that  well?  In  a  false  position  everything  is  false. 
Yours,  then,  was  the  first  wrong  step.  No,  a  man  is  not  a 
monster  because  he  tries  to  attract  a  woman  ;  our  rights  allow 
us  to  be  the  aggressors,  with  all  the  consequences,  short  of 
crime  and  baseness.  A  man  may  still  have  virtues  even  after 
throwing  over  a  woman,  for  this  simply  means  that  he  has 
failed  to  find  the  treasure  he  sought  in  her ;  while  no  woman 
but  a  queen,  an  actress,  or  a  woman  so  far  above  the  man  in 
rank  that  to  him  she  is  like  a  queen,  can  take  the  initiative 
without  incurring  much  blame.  But  a  girl  !  She  is  false  to 
everything  that  God  has  given  her,  every  flower  of  saintli- 
ness,  dignity,  and  sweetness,  whatever  grace,  poetry,  or  pre- 
caution she  may  infuse  into  the  act." 

"  To  seek  the  master  and  find  the  servant !  To  play  the 
old  farce  of  Love  and  Chance  on  one  side  only !  "  she  ex- 
claimed, with  bitter  feeling.  "  Oh,  I  shall  never  hold  up  my 
head  again  !  ' ' 

"  Foolish  child  !  Monsieur  Ernest  de  la  Briere  is,  in  my 
eyes,  at  least  the  equal  of  Monsieur  de  Canalis ;  he  has  been 
private  secretary  to  a  prime  minister,  he  is  referendary  to  the 
court  of  exchequer,  he  is  a  man  of  heart,  he  adores  you — but 
he  does  not  write  verses.  No,  I  confess  it,  he  is  not  a  poet ; 
but  he  may  have  a  heart  full  of  poetry.  However,  my  poor 
child,"  he  added,  in  reply  to  Modeste's  face  of  disgust,  "you 
will  see  them  both — the  false  and  the  real  Canalis — 

"Oh,  papa!  " 

"  Did  you  not  swear  to  obey  me  in  everything  that  con- 
cerns the  business  of  your  marriage  ?  Well,  you  may  choose 
between  them  the  man  you  prefer  for  your  husband.  You 
began  with  a  poem,  you  may  end  with  a  page  of  bucolics  by 
11 


162  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

trying  to  detect  the  true  nature  of  these  gentlemen  in  some 
rustic  excursions,  a  shooting  or  a  fishing  party." 

Modeste  bent  her  head  and  returned  to  the  chalet  with  her 
father,  listening  to  what  he  said,  and  answering  in  monosylla- 
bles. She  had  fallen  humiliated  into  the  depths  of  a  bog, 
from  the  Alp  where  she  fancied  she  had  flown  up  to  an  eagle's 
nest.  To  adopt  the  poetical  phraseology  of  an  author  of  that 
period,  "After  feeling  the  soles  of  her  feet  too  tender  to 
tread  on  the  glass  sherds  of  reality,  fancy,  which  had  united 
every  characteristic  of  woman  in  that  fragile  form,  from  the 
day-dreams  of  a  modest  girl,  all  strewn  with  violets,  to  the 
unbridled  desires  of  a  courtesan,  had  now  led  her  into  the 
midst  of  her  enchanted  gardens,  where,  hideous  surprise  ! 
instead  of  an  exquisite  blossom,  she  found  growing  from  the 
soil  the  hairy  and  twisted  limbs  of  the  Mandragora." 

From  the  mystic  heights  of  her  love  Modeste  had  dropped 
on  to  the  dull,  flat  road,  lying  between  ditches  and  ploughed 
lands — the  road,  in  short,  that  is  paved  with  vulgarity.  What 
girl  with  an  ardent  spirit  but  would  be  broken  by  such  a  fall? 
At  whose  feet  had  she  cast  her  promises  ? 

The  Modeste  who  returned  to  the  chalet  bore  no  more  re- 
semblance to  the  girl  who  had  gone  out  two  hours  before, 
than  the  actress  in  the  street  resembles  the  heroine  on  the 
stage.  She  sank  into  a  state  of  apathy  that  was  painful  to  be- 
hold. The  sun  was  darkened,  nature  was  under  a  shroud,  the 
flowers  had  no  message  for  her.  Like  every  girl  of  a  vehe- 
ment disposition,  she  drank  a  little  too  deeply  of  the  cup  of 
disenchantment.  She  rebelled  against  reality,  without  choos- 
ing as  yet  to  bend  her  neck  to  the  yoke  of  the  family  and  of 
society ;  she  thought  it  too  heavy,  too  hard,  too  oppressive. 
She  would  not  even  listen  to  the  comfort  offered  by  her  father 
and  mother,  and  felt  an  indescribable  savage  delight  in 
abandoning  herself  wholly  and  unrestrainedly  to  her  mental 
sufferings. 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  1G3 

"  Then  poor  Butscha  was  right !  "  she  exclaimed  one  even- 
ing. 

This  speech  shows  how  far  she  had  traveled  in  so  short  a 
time  on  the  barren  plains  of  reality,  guided  by  her  deep  de- 
jection. Grief,  when  it  comes  of  the  upheaval  of  all  our 
hopes,  is  an  illness ;  it  often  ends  in  death.  It  would  be  no 
mean  occupation  for  modern  physiology  to  investigate  the 
process  and  means  by  which  a  thought  can  produce  the  same 
deadly  effects  as  a  poison  ;  how  despair  can  destroy  the  appe- 
tite, injure  the  pylorus,  and  change  all  the  functions  of  the 
strongest  vitality.  This  was  the  case  with  Modeste.  In 
three  days  she  presented  an  image  of  morbid  melancholy;  she 
sang  no  more,  it  was  impossible  to  make  her  smile ;  her 
parents  and  friends  were  alarmed.  Charles  Mignon,  uneasy 
at  seeing  nothing  of  the  two  young  men,  was  thinking  of 
going  to  Paris,  remind  la  Briere  of  his  promise,  and  fetch 
them ;  but  on  the  fourth  day  Monsieur  Latournelle  had  news 
of  them,  and  this  was  how : 

Canalis,  immensely  tempted  by  such  a  rich  marriage,  would 
neglect  no  means  of  outdoing  la  Briere,  while  Ernest  could 
not  complain  of  his  having  violated  the  laws  of  friendship. 
The  poet  thought  that  nothing  put  a  lover  at  a  greater  disad- 
vantage in  a  young  lady's  eyes  than  figuring  in  an  inferior 
position  ;  so  he  proposed,  in  the  most  innocent  manner  pos- 
sible, that  he  and  la  Briere  should  keep  house  together, 
taking  a  little  country  place  at  Ingouville,  where  they  might 
live  for  a  month  under  pretext  of  recruiting  their  health. 

As  soon  as  la  Briere  had  consented  to  this  proposal,  at 
first  regarding  it  as  very  natural,  Canalis  insisted  on  his  being 
his  guest,  and  made  all  the  arrangements  himself.  He  sent 
his  manservant  to  le  Havre,  desiring  him  to  apply  to  Mon- 
sieur Latournelle  for  the  choice  of  a  country  cottage  at 
Ingouville,  thinking  that  the  notary  would  certainly  talk  over 
the  matter  with  the  Mignon  family.  Ernest  and  Canalis,  it 
may  be  supposed,  had  discussed  every  detail  of  their  adven- 


164  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

ture;  and  la  Briere,  always  prolix,  had  given  his  rival  a 
thousand  valuable  hints. 

The  servant,  understanding  his  master's  intentions,  carried 
them  out  to  admiration ;  he  trumpeted  the  advent  of  the 
great  poet,  to  whom  his  doctors  had  ordered  some  sea-baths 
to  recruit  him  after  the  double  fatigues  of  politics  and  liter- 
ature. This  grand  personage  required  a  house  of  at  least  so 
many  rooms ;  for  he  was  bringing  his  secretary,  his  cook,  two 
menservants,  and  a  coachman,  not  to  mention  Monsieur  Ger- 
main Bonnet,  his  body-servant.  The  traveling  carriage  the 
poet  selected  and  hired  for  a  month  was  very  neat,  and  could 
serve  for  making  some  excursions ;  and  Germain  was  in  search 
of  two  saddle-horses  for  hire  in  the  neighborhood,  as  Monsieur 
le  Baron  and  his  secretary  were  fond  of  horse  exercise.  In 
the  presence  of  little  Latournelle,  Germain,  as  he  went  over 
various  houses,  spoke  much  of  the  secretary,  and  rejected  two 
villas  on  the  ground  that  Monsieur  de  la  Briere  would  not  be 
well  accommodated. 

"Monsieur  le  Baron,"  said  he,  "regards  his  secretary  as 
his  best  friend.  Oh,  I  should  catch  it  handsomely  if  Monsieur 
de  la  Briere  was  not  as  well  served  as  Monsieur  le  Baron 
himself.  And,  after  all,  Monsieur  de  la  Briere  is  referendary 
to  the  court  of  exchequer." 

Germain  was  never  seen  dressed  otherwise  than  in  a  suit  of 
black,  with  good  gloves  and  boots,  turned  out  like  a  gentle- 
man. Imagine  the  effect  he  produced,  and  the  notion  that 
was  formed  of  the  great  poet  from  this  specimen.  A  clever 
man's  servant  becomes  clever  too  ;  the  master's  cleverness 
presently  "runs"  and  colors  the  man.  Germain  did  not 
overact  his  part ;  he  was  straightforward  and  genial,  as  Canalis 
had,  instructed  him  to  be.  Poor  la  Briere  had  no  suspicion 
of  the  injury  Germain  was  doing  him,  or  of  the  depreciation 
to  which  he  had  exposed  himself;  for  some  echoes  of  public 
report  arose  from  the  lower  depths  to  Modeste's  ears.  Thus 
Canalis  was  bringing  his  friend  in  his  retinue,  in  his  carriage; 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  165 

and  Ernest's  simple  nature  did  not  allow  him  to  perceive  his 
false  position  soon  enough  to  remedy  it. 

The  delay  which  so  provoked  Charles  Mignon  was  caused 
by  the  poet's  desire  to  have  his  arms  painted  on  the  doors  of 
the  chaise,  and  by  his  orders  to  the  tailor ;  for  Canalis  took 
in  the  wide  world  of  such  trivialities,  of  which  the  least  may 
influence  a  girl. 

"  Make  yourself  easy,"  said  Latournelle  to  the  colonel  on 
the  fifth  day.  "  Monsieur  de  Canalis'  man  came  to  a  deter- 
mination this  morning.  He  has  taken  Madame  Amaury's 
cottage  at  San  vie,  furnished,  for  seven  hundred  francs,  and 
has  written  to  his  master  that  he  can  start,  and  will  find  every- 
thing ready  on  his  arrival.  So  the  gentlemen  will  be  here  by 
Sunday.  I  have  also  had  this  note  from  Butscha.  Here — it 
is  not  long :  '  My  dear  master,  I  cannot  get  back  before 
Sunday.  Between  this  and  then  I  must  get  some  important 
information  which  nearly  concerns  some  one  in  whom  you  are 
interested.'  " 

The  announcement  of  this  arrival  did  not  make  Modeste  at 
all  less  sad;  the  sense  of  a  fall,  of  humiliation,  still  held  sway 
over  her,  and  she  was  not  such  a  born  coquette  as  her  father 
thought  her.  There  is  a  charming  and  permissible  kind  of 
flirtation,  the  coquetry  of  the  soul,  which  might  be  called  the 
good  breeding  of  love  ;  and  Charles  Mignon,  when  reproving 
his  daughter,  had  failed  to  distinguish  between  the  desire  to 
please  and  the  factitious  love  of  the  jnind,  between  the  craving 
of  love  and  self-interest.  Just  like  a  soldier  of  the  Empire,  he 
saw  in  the  letters  he  had  so  hastily  read  a  girl  throwing  herself 
at  a  poet's  head ;  but  in  many  letters — ^omitted  here  for  the 
sake  of  brevity — a  connoisseur  would  have  admired  the  maid- 
enly and  graceful  reserve  which  Modeste  had  immediately 
substituted  for  the  aggressive  and  frivolous  pertness  of  her  first 
effusions — a  transition  very  natural  in  a  woman. 

On  one  point  her  father  had  been  cruelly  right.  It  was  her 
last  letter— in  which  Modeste,  carried  away  by  threefold  love, 


166  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

had  spoken  as  though  their  marriage  was  a  decided  thing, 
which  really  brought  her  to  shame.  Still,  she  thought  her 
father  very  hard,  very  cruel,  to  compel  her  to  receive  a  man 
so  unworthy  of  her,  toward  whom  her  soul  had  flown  almost 
unveiled.  She  had  questioned  Dumay  as  to  his  interview  with 
the  poet ;  she  had  ingeniously  extracted  from  him  every  detail, 
and  she  could  not  think  Canalis  such  a  barbarian  as  the  lieu- 
tenant thought  him.  She  could  smile  at  the  fine  papal  chest 
containing  the  letters  of  the  mille  et  trois  ladies  of  this  literary 
Don  Giovanni.  Again  and  again  she  was  on  the  point  of 
saying  to  her  father,  "  I  am  not  the  only  girl  who  writes  to 
him;  the  cream  of  womankind  sends  leaves  for  the  poet's 
crown  of  bay." 

In  the  course  of  this  week  Modeste's  character  underwent 
a  transformation.  This  catastrophe — and  it  was  a  great  one 
to  so  poetical  a  nature — aroused  her  latent  acumen  and  spirit 
of  mischief,  and  her  suitors  were  to  find  her  a  formidable 
adversary.  For,  in  fact,  in  any  girl,  if  her  heart  is  chilled, 
her  head  grows  clear ;  she  then  observes  everything  with  a 
certain  swiftness  of  judgment  and  a  spirit  of  mockery,  such  as 
Shakespeare  has  admirably  painted  in  the  person  of  Beatrice 
in  "Much  Ado  about  Nothing."  Modeste  was  seized  by 
intense  disgust  of  mankind,  since  the  most  distinguished  of 
them  had  deceived  her  hopes.  In  love,  what  a  woman  mis- 
takes for  disgust  is  simply  seeing  clearly ;  but  in  matters  of 
feeling  no  woman,  especially  no  young  girl,  ever  sees  truly. 
When  she  ceases  to  admire,  she  contemns.  So  Modeste,  after 
going  through  fearful  tortures  of  mind,  inevitably  put  on  the 
armor  on  which,  as  she  declared,  she  had  stamped  the  word 
Contempt ;  thenceforward  she  could  look  on  as  a  disinterested 
spectator  at  what  she  called  the  Farce  of  Suitors  ;  although  she 
filled  the  part  of  leading  lady.  More  especially  was  she  bent 
on  pertinaciously  humiliating  and  scornfully  treating  Monsieur 
de  la  Briere. 

"  Modeste  is  saved,"  said  Madame  Mignon  to  her  husband 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  167 

with  a  smile.     "  She  means  to  be  revenged  on  the  false  Can- 
alis  by  trying  to  fall  in  love  with  the  true  one." 

This  was,  indeed,  Modeste's  plan.  It  was  so  obvious  that 
her  mother,  to  whom  she  confided  her  vexation,  advised  her 
to  treat  Monsieur  de  la  Briere  with  oppressive  civility. 

"These  two  young  fellows,"  said  Madame  Latournelle  on 
the  Saturday,  "  have  no  suspicion  of  the  troop  of  spies  at 
their  heels,  for  here  are  eight  of  us  to  keep  an  eye  on  them." 

"  What,  my  dear— two?  "  cried  little  Latournelle  ;  "  there 
are  three  of  them !  Gobenheim  is  not  here  yet,  so  I  may 
speak. ' ' 

Modeste  had  looked  up,  and  all  the  others,  following  her 
example,  gazed  at  the  notary. 

"  A  third  lover,  and  he  is  a  lover,  has  put  himself  on  the 
list " 

"  Bless  me  !  "  said  Charles  Mignon. 

"But  he  is  no  less  a  person,"  the  notary  went  on  pomp- 
ously, "than  his  lordship  Monsieur  le  Due  d'Herouville, 
Marquis  de  Saint-Sever,  Due  de  Nivron,  Comte  de  Bayeux, 
Vicomte  d'Essigny,  High  Equerry  of  France,  and  Peer  of  the 
Realm,  Knight  of  the  Orders  of  the  Spur  and  of  the  Golden 
Fleece,  Grandee  of  Spain,  and  son  of  the  last  Governor  of 
Normandy.  He  saw  Mademoiselle  Modeste  when  he  was 
staying  with  the  Vilquins,  and  he  then  only  regretted — as  his 
notary  told  me,  who  arrived  yesterday  from  Bayeux — that  she 
was  not  rich  enough  for  him,  since  his  father,  on  his  return 
from  exile,  had  found  nothing  left  but  his  chateau  of  Herou- 
ville,  graced  by  his  sister's  presence.  The  young  Duke  is 
three-and-thirty.  I  am  definitely  charged  to  make  overtures, 
Monsieur  le  Comte,"  added  Latournelle,  turning  respectfully 
to  the  colonel. 

"Ask  Modeste,"  said  her  father,  "whether  she  wishes  to 
have  another  bird  in  her  aviary ;  for,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned, 
I  am  quite  willing  that  this  fine  gentleman  equerry  should  pay 
his  addresses  to  her." 


168  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

Notwithstanding  the  care  with  which  Charles  Mignon 
avoided  seeing  anybody,  for  he  stayed  in  the  chalet  and  never 
went  out  but  with  Modeste ;  Gobenheim,  whom  they  could 
hardly  cease  to  receive  at  the  chalet,  had  gossiped  about 
Dumay's  wealth  ;  for  Dumay,  a  second  father  to  Modeste,  had 
said  to  Gobenheim  when  he  left  his  service,  "  I  shall  be  my 
colonel's  steward,  and  all  my  money,  excepting  what  my  wife 
may  keep,  will  go  to  my  little  Modeste's  children." 

So  every  one  at  le  Havre  had  echoed  the  plain  question 
that  Latournelle  had  asked  himself — 

"  Must  not  Monsieur  Charles  Mignon  have  made  an  enor- 
mous fortune  if  Dumay's  share  amounts  to  six  hundred  thou- 
sand francs  and  if  Dumay  is  to  be  his  steward?" 

"  Monsieur  Mignon  came  home  in  a  ship  of  his  own,"  said 
the  gossips  on  'Change,  "loaded  with  indigo.  The  freight 
alone,  not  to  mention  the  vessel,  is  worth  more  than  he  gives 
out  to  be  his  fortune." 

The  colonel  would  not  discharge  the  servants  he  had  so 
carefully  chosen  during  his  travels,  so  he  was  obliged  to  hire 
a  house  for  six  months  in  the  lower  part  of  Ingouville ;  he 
had  a  body-servant,  a  cook,  and  a  coachman — both  negroes — 
and  a  mulatto  woman  and  two  mulatto  men  on  whose  faith- 
fulness he  could  rely.  The  coachman  was  inquiring  for  riding 
horses  for  mademoiselle  and  his  master,  and  for  carriage  horses 
for  the  chaise  in  which  the  colonel  and  the  lieutenant  had 
come  home.  This  traveling  carriage,  purchased  in  Paris,  was 
in  the  latest  fashion,  and  bore  the  arms  of  la  Bastie  with  a 
Count's  coronet.  All  these  things,  mere  trifles  in  the  eyes  of 
a  man  who  had  been  living  for  four  years  in  the  midst  of  the 
unbounded  luxury  of  the  Indies,  of  the  Hong  merchants, 
and  the  English  at  Canton,  were  the  subject  of  comment  to 
the  traders  of  le  Havre  and  the  good  folks  of  Graville  and 
Ingouville.  Within  five  days  there  was  a  hubbub  of  talk 
which  flashed  across  Normandy  like  a  fired  train  of  gunpowder. 
"  Monsieur  Mignon  has  come  home  from  China  with  mil- 


MODESTE   MIGNON.  j,;;, 

lions,"  was  said  at  Rouen,  "and  it  would  seem  that  he  has 
become  a  Count  in  the  course  of  his  travels." 

"But  he  was  Comte  de  la  Bastie  before  the  revolution," 
somebody  remarked. 

"So  a  Liberal,  who  for  five-and  twenty  years  was  known 
as  Charles  Mignon,  is  now  called  Monsieur  le  Comte  !  What 
are  we  coming  to  ?  " 

Thus,  in  spite  of  the  reserve  of  her  parents  and  intimates, 
Modeste  was  regarded  as  the  richest  heiress  in  Normandy, 
and  all  eyes  could  now  see  her  merits.  The  Due  d'H6rou- 
ville's  aunt  and  sister,  in  full  drawing-room  assembly  at 
Bayeux,  confirmed  Monsieur  Charles  Mignon's  right  to  the 
arms  and  title  of  Count  conferred  on  Cardinal  Mignon,  whose 
cardinal's  hat  and  cords  were,  out  of  gratitude,  assumed  in 
place  of  a  crest  and  supporters.  These  ladies  had  caught 
sight  of  Mademoiselle  de  la  Bastie  from  the  Vilquins',  and 
their  solicitude  for  the  impoverished  head  of  the  house  at 
once  scented  an  opportunity. 

"  If  Mademoiselle  de  la  Bastie  is  as  rich  as  she  is  hand- 
some," said  the  young  Duke's  aunt,  "she  will  be  the  best 
match  in  the  province.  And  she,  at  any  rate,  is  of  noble 
birth!" 

The  last  words  were  a  shot  at  the  Vilquins,  with  whom  they 
could  not  come  to  terms  after  enduring  the  humiliation  of 
paying  them  a  visit. 

Such  were  the  little  events  which  led  to  the  introduction 
of  another  actor  in  this  domestic  drama,  contrary  to  all  the 
laws  of  Aristotle  and  Horace.  But  the  portrait  and  biog- 
raphy of  this  personage,  so  tardy  in  his  appearance,  will  not 
detain  us  long,  since  he  is  of  the  smallest  importance.  Mon- 
sieur le  Due  will  not  fill  more  space  here  than  he  will  in 

history. 

Monsieur  le  Due  d'Herouville,  the  fruit  of  the  matrimonial 
autumn  of  the  last  Governor  of  Normandy,  was  born  at 
Vienna  in  1796,  during  the  emigration.  The  old  marshal, 


170  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

who  returned  with  the  King  in  1814,  died  in  1819  without 
seeing  his  son  married,  though  he  was  Due  de  Nivron ;  he 
had  nothing  to  leave  him  but  the  immense  chateau  of  Herou- 
ville,  with  the  park,  some  outlying  ground  and  a  farm,  all 
painfully  repurchased,  and  worth  about  fifteen  thousand  francs 
a  year.  Louis  XVIII.  gave  the  young  Duke  the  post  of 
master  of  the  horse ;  and  under  Charles  X.  he  received  the 
allowance  of  twelve  thousand  francs  a  year  granted  to  impe- 
cunious peers. 

But  what  were  twenty-seven  thousand  francs  a  year  for  such 
a  family  ?  In  Paris,  indeed,  the  young  Duke  had  the  use  of 
the  royal  carriages,  and  his  official  residence  at  the  King's 
stables  in  the  Rue  Saint-Thomas  du  Louvre ;  his  salary  paid 
the  expenses  of  the  winter,  and  the  twenty-seven  thousand 
francs  paid  those  of  the  summer  in  Normandy. 

Though  this  great  man  was  still  a  bachelor,  the  fault  was 
less  his  own  than  that  of  his  aunt,  who  was  not  familiar 
with  La  Fontaine's  fables.  Mademoiselle  d'Herouville's  pre- 
tensions were  stupendous,  quite  out  of  harmony  with  the  spirit 
of  the  age ;  for  great  names  without  money  can  hardly  meet 
with  any  wealthy  heiresses  among  the  high  French  nobility, 
which  finds  it  difficult  enough  to  enrich  its  sons,  ruined  by 
the  equal  division  of  property.  To  find  an  advantageous 
match  for  the  young  Due  d'Herouville  she  should  have  culti- 
vated the  great  financial  houses,  but  this  haughty  daughter  of 
the  noble  house  offended  them  all  by  her  cutting  speeches. 
During  the  early  years  of  the  restoration,  between  1817  and 
1825,  while  looking  out  for  millions,  Mademoiselle  d'Herou- 
ville refused  Mademoiselle  Mongenod,  the  banker's  daughter, 
with  whom  Monsieur  de  Fontaine  was  content.  And  now, 
after  various  good  matches  had  been  marred  by  her  pride,  she 
had  just  decided  that  the  fortune  of  the  Nucingens  had  been 
amassed  by  too  vile  means  to  allow  of  her  lending  herself  to 
Madame  de  Nucingen's  ambitious  desire  to  see  her  daughter 
a  duchess.  The  King,  anxious  to  restore  the  splendor  of  the 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  J71 

Herouvilles,  had  almost  made  the  match  himself,  and  he  pub- 
licly taxed  Mademoiselle  d'Herouville  with  folly.  Thus  the 
aunt  made  her  nephew  ridiculous,  and  the  Duke  laid  himself 
open  to  ridicule. 

It  is  a  fact  that  when  the  great  things  of  humanity  vanish 
they  leave  some  fragments  (frusteaux,  Rabelais  would  call 
them);  and  the  French  nobility  in  our  day  shows  too  many 
fag-ends.  In  this  long  study  of  manners  neither  the  clergy 
nor  the  nobility  have  anything  to  complain  of.  Those  two 
great  and  magnificent  social  necessaries  are  well  represented ; 
but  would  it  not  be  false  to  the  proud  title  of  historian  to  be 
other  than  impartial,  to  fail  to  show  here  the  degeneracy  of 
the  race — just  as  you  will  elsewhere  find  the  study  of  an 
emigre,  the  Comte  de  Mortsauf  (le  Lys  dans  la  vallee),  and 
every  noblest  feature  of  the  noble,  in  the  Marquis  d'Espard 
(/ '  Interdiction) . 

How  was  it  that  a  race  of  brave  and  strong  men,  that  the 
house  of  d'Herouville,  which  gave  the  famous  marshal  to  the 
royal  cause,  cardinals  to  the  church,  captains  to  the  Valois, 
and  brave  men  to  Louis  XIV.,  ended  in  a  frail  creature 
smaller  than  Butscha  ?  It  is  a  question  we  may  ask  ourselves 
in  many  a  Paris  drawing-room,  as  we  hear  one  of  the  great 
names  of  France  announced,  and  see  a  little  slender  slip  of  a 
man  come  in  who  seems  only  to  breathe,  or  a  prematurely  old 
fellow,  or  some  eccentric  being,  in  whom  the  observer  seeks, 
but  scarcely  finds,  a  feature  in  which  imagination  can  see  a 
trace  of  original  greatness.  The  dissipations  of  the  reign  of 
Louis  XV.,  the  orgies  of  that  selfish  time,  have  produced  the 
etiolated  generation  in  which  fine  manners  are  the  sole  sur- 
vivors of  extinct  great  qualities.  Style  is  the  only  inheritance 
preserved  by  the  nobility.  Thus,  apart  from  certain  excep- 
tions, the  defection  which  left  Louis  XVI.  to  perish  may  be 
to  some  extent  explained  by  the  miserable  heritage  of  the 
reign  of  Madame  de  Pompadour. 

The  master  of  the  horse,  a  young  man  with  blue  eyes, 


172  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

fair,  pale,  and  slight,  had  a  certain  dignity  of  mind ;  but  his 
small  size,  and  his  aunt's  mistake  in  having  led  him  to  be 
uselessly  civil  to  the  Vilquins,  made  him  excessively  shy. 
The  d'Herouvilles  had  had  a  narrow  escape  of  dying  out  in 
the  person  of  a  cripple  (T  Enfant  maudif).  But  the  Grand 
Marshal — as  the  family  always  called  the  d'Herouville  whom 
Louis  XIII.  had  created  Duke — had  married  at  the  age  of 
eighty-two,  and,  of  course,  the  family  had  been  continued. 
The  young  Duke  liked  women  ;  but  he  placed  them  too  high, 
he  respected  them  too  much,  he  adored  them,  and  was  not  at 
his  ease  but  with  those  whom  no  one  respects.  This  character 
had  led  to  his  living  a  twofold  life.  He  avenged  himself  on 
women  of  easy  life  for  the  worship  he  paid  in  the  drawing- 
rooms,  or,  if  you  like,  the  boudoirs,  of  Saint-Germain.  His 
ways  and  his  tiny  figure,  his  weary  face,  his  blue  eyes,  with 
their  somewhat  ecstatic  expression,  had  added  to  the  ridicule 
poured  on  him,  most  unjustly,  for  he  was  full  of  apprehen- 
siveness  and  wit ;  but  his  wit  had  no  sparkle,  and  was  never 
seen  excepting  when  he  was  quite  at  his  ease.  Fanny  Beaupre, 
the  actress,  who  was  supposed  to  be  his  highly  paid  and  most 
intimate  friend,  used  to  say  of  him,  "  It  is  good  wine,  but  so 
tightly  corked  up  that  you  break  your  corkscrews." 

The  handsome  Duchesse  de  Maufrigneuse,  whom  the  master 
of  the  horse  could  only  adore,  crushed  him  by  a  speech 
which,  unluckily,  was  repeated,  as  all  clever  but  ill-natured 
speeches  are. 

"He  reminds  me,"  said  she,  "of  a  trinket,  beautifully 
wrought,  but  which  we  show  more  than  we  use  and  always 
keep  in  cotton  wool." 

Even  his  title  of  master  of  the  horse  would,  by  force  of 
contrast,  make  good  King  Charles  X.  laugh,  though  the  Due 
d'Herouville  was  a  capital  horseman.  Men,  like  books,  are 
sometimes  valued  too  late.  Modeste  had  had  a  glimpse  of 
the  Duke  during  his  fruitless  visit  to  the  Vilquins,  and,  as  he 
went  by,  all  these  remarks  involuntarily  recurred  to  her  mind ; 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  173 

but  in  the  position  in  which  she  now  stood,  she  perceived 
how  valuable  the  Due  d'Herouville's  suit  would  be  to  save  her 
from  being  at  the  mercy  of  a  Canalis. 

"I  do  not  see,"  said  she  to  Latournelle,  "why  the  Due 
d'Herouville  should  not  be  allowed  to  call.  In  spite  of  our 
indigence,"  she  added,  with  a  mischievous  glance  at  her 
father,  "  I  am  supposed  to  be  an  heiress.  I  shall  have  at  last 
to  publish  a  card  of  the  field.  Have  you  not  noticed  how 
Gobenheim's  looks  have  changed  in  the  course  of  this  week? 
He  is  in  despair  because  he  cannot  set  down  his  faithful  at- 
tendance for  whist  to  the  score  of  mute  admiration  of  me !  " 

"  Hush,  my  darling  !  here  he  is,"  said  Madame  Latour- 
nelle. 

"Old  Althor  is  in  despair,"  said  Gobenheim  to  Monsieur 
Mignon  as  he  came  in. 

"  What  about  ?  "  asked  the  Comte  de  la  Bastie. 

"  Vilquin  is  going  to  fail,  they  say,  and  on  'Change  here 
you  are  said  to  have  several  millions "  , 

"  No  one  knows,"  said  Charles  Mignon  very  drily,  "what 
my  obligations  in  India  may  amount  to,  and  I  do  not  care  to 
admit  the  public  to  my  confidence  in  business  matters.  Du- 
may,"  he  said  in  his  friend's  ear,  "if Vilquin  is  in  difficul- 
ties we  may  be  able  to  get  the  place  back  for  what  he  gave 
for  it  in  ready  money." 

Such  was  the  state  of  affairs  brought  about  by  chance  when, 
on  Sunday  morning,  Canalis  and  la  Bridre,  preceded  by  a 
courier,  arrived  at  Madame  Amaury's  villa.  They  were  told 
that  the  Due  d'Herouville  and  his  sister  had  arrived  on  the 
previous  Tuesday  at  a  hired  house  in  Graville,  for  the  benefit 
of  their  health.  This  competition  led  to  a  jest  in  the  town 
that  rents  would  rise  at  Ingouville. 

"  She  will  make  the  place  a  perfect  hospital  if  this  goes 
on  !  "  remarked  Mademoiselle  Vilquin,  disgusted  at  not  be- 
coming a  duchess. 

The  perennial  comedy  of  "The  Heiress,"  now  to  be  per- 


174  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

formed  at  the  chalet,  might  certainly,  from  the  frame  of  mind 
in  which  it  found  Modeste,  have  been,  as  she  had  said  in  jest, 
a  competition,  for  she  was  firmly  resolved,  after  the  over- 
throw of  her  illusions,  to  give  her  hand  only  to  the  man 
whose  character  should  prove  perfectly  satisfactory. 

On  the  morrow  of  their  arrival,  the  rivals — still  bosom 
friends — prepared  to  make  their  first  visit  to  the  chalet  that 
evening.  They  devoted  the  whole  of  Sunday  and  all  Mon- 
day morning  to  unpacking,  to  taking  possession  of  Madame 
Amaury's  house,  and  to  settling  themselves  in  it  for  a  month. 
Beside,  the  poet,  justified  by  his  position  as  minister's  ap- 
prentice in  allowing  himself  some  craft,  had  thought  of  every- 
thing ;  he  wished  to  get  the  benefit  of  the  excitement  that 
might  be  caused  by  his  arrival,  of  which  some  echoes  might 
reach  the  chalet.  Canalis,  supposed  to  be  much  fatigued, 
did  not  go  out ;  la  Briere  went  twice  to  walk  past  the  chalet, 
for  he  loved  with  a  sort  of  desperation,  he  had  the  greatest 
dread  of  having  repelled  Modeste,  his  future  seemed  wrapped 
in  thick  clouds. 

The  two  friends  came  down  to  dinner  on  that  Monday  in 
array  for  their  first  visit,  the  most  important  of  all.  La  Briere 
was  dressed  as  he  had  been  in  church  on  that  famous  Sunday ; 
but  he  regarded  himself  as  the  satellite  to  a  planet,  and  trusted 
wholly  to  the  chance  of  circumstances.  Canalis,  on  his  part, 
had  not  forgotten  his  black  coat,  nor  his  orders,  nor  the 
drawing-room  grace  perfected  by  his  intimacy  with  the  Duch- 
esse  de  Chaulieu,  his  patroness,  and  with  the  finest  company 
of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain.  Canalis  had  attended  to 
every  detail  of  dandyism,  while  poor  Ernest  was  prepared  to 
appear  in  the  comparative  carelessness  of  a  hopeless  man. 

As  he  waited  on  the  two  gentlemen  at  table,  Germain  could 
not  help  smiling  at  the  contrast.  At  the  second  course  he 
came  in  with  a  diplomatic,  or,  to  be  exact,  a  disturbed  air. 

"Monsieur  le  Baron,"  said  he  to  Canalis  in  a  low  voice, 
"did  you  know  that  monsieur  the  master  of  the  horse  is 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  175 

coming  to  Graville  to  be  cured  of  the  same  complaint  as  you 
and  Monsieur  de  la  Briere?" 

"The  little  Ducd'Herouville?"  cried  Canalis. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Can  he  have  come  for  Mademoiselle  de  la  Bastie  ?  "  asked 
la  Briere,  coloring. 

"For  Mademoiselle  Mignon,"  replied  Germain. 

"  We  are  done  1  "  said  Canalis,  looking  at  la  Briere. 

"Ah  !"  Ernest  eagerly  replied,  "that  is  the  first  time  you 
have  said  we  since  we  left  Paris.  Till  this  moment  you  have 
said  /." 

"  You  know  me  !  "  cried  Melchior  with  a  burst  of  laughter. 
"  Well,  we  are  not  in  a  position  to  hold  our  own  against  an 
officer  of  the  household,  against  the  title  of  duke  and  peer, 
nor  against  the  marsh-lands  which  the  privy  council  has  just 
conferred,  on  the  strength  of  my  report,  on  the  House  of 
Herouville." 

"His  highness,"  said  la  Briere  with  mischievous  gravity, 
"  offers  you  a  plum  of  consolation  in  the  person  of  his  sister." 

Just  at  this  moment  the  Comte  de  la  Bastie  was  announced. 
The  two  young  men  arose  to  receive  him,  and  la  Briere  has- 
tened to  meet  him  and  introduce  Canalis. 

"I  had  to  return  the  visit  you  paid  me  in  Paris,"  said 
Charles  Mignon  to  the  young  referendary,  "  and  I  knew  that 
by  coming  here  I  should  have  the  added  pleasure  of  seeing 
one  of  our  living  great  poets." 

"  Great  ? — monsieur,"  the  poet  replied  with  a  smile;  "  there 
can  be  nothing  great  henceforth  in  an  age  to  which  the  reign 
of  Napoleon  was  the  preface.  To  begin  with,  we  are  a  perfect 
tribe  of  so-called  great  poets.  And  beside,  second-rate  talent 
apes  genius  so  well  that  it  has  made  any  great  distinction  im- 
possible." 

"And  is  that  what  has  driven  you  into  politics?  "  asked  the 
Comte  de  la  Bastie. 

"It  is  the  same  in  that  field  too,"  said  Canalis.     "There 


176  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

will  be  no  more  great  statesmen ;  there  will  be  only  men  who 
are  more  or  less  in  touch  with  events.  Under  the  system  pro- 
duced by  the  charter,  monsieur,  which  regards  the  schedule 
of  the  rates  you  pay  as  a  patent  of  nobility,  there  is  nothing 
substantial  but  what  you  went  to  find  in  China — a  fortune." 

Melchior,  well  pleased  with  himself,  and  satisfied  with  the 
impression  he  was  making  on  his  future  father-in-law,  now 
turned  to  Germain. 

"Give  us  coffee  in  the  drawing-room,"  said  he,  bowing  to 
the  merchant  to  leave  the  dining-room. 

"I  must  thank  you,  Monsieur  le  Comte,"  said  la  Briere, 
"  for  having  spared  me  the  embarrassment  of  not  knowing 
how  I  might  introduce  my  friend  at  your  house.  To  your 
kind  heart  you  add  a  happy  wit " 

"Oh,  such  wit  as  is  common  to  the  natives  of  Provence," 
returned  Mignon. 

"Ah,  you  come  from  Provence?"  cried  Canalis. 

"  Forgive  my  friend,"  said  la  Briere,  "he  has  not  studied 
the  history  of  the  la  Basties,  as  I  have." 

At  the  word  friend,  Canalis  shot  a  deep  look  at  Ernest. 

"  If  your  health  permits,"  said  the  Provencal  to  the  great 
poet,  "  I  claim  the  honor  of  receiving  you  this  evening  under 
my  roof.  It  will  be  a  day  to  mark,  as  the  ancients  have  it, 
albo  notanda  lapillo.  Though  we  are  somewhat  shy  of  receiv- 
ing so  great  a  glory  in  so  small  a  house,  you  will  gratify  my 
daughter's  impatience,  for  her  admiration  has  led  her  even  to 
set  your  verses  to  music." 

"You  possess  what  is  better  than  glory,"  said  Canalis. 
"You  have  beauty  in  your  home,  if  I  may  believe  Ernest." 

"  Oh,  she  is  a  good  girl,  whom  you  will  find  quite  pro- 
vincial," said  the  father. 

"  Provincial  as  she  is,  she  has  a  suitor  in  the  Due  d'H6rou- 
ville,"  cried  Canalis  in  a  hard  tone. 

"Oh,"  said  Monsieur  Mignon,  with  the  deceptive  frankness 
of  a  southerner,  "I  leave  my  daughter  free  to  choose.  Dukes, 


I 

MODESTE  MIGNON.  177 

princes,  private  gentlemen,  they  are  all  the  same  to  me,  even 
men  of  genius.  I  will  pledge  myself  to  nothing ;  the  man  my 
Modeste  may  prefer  will  be  my  son-in-law,  or  rather  my  son," 
and  he  looked  at  la  Briere.  "  Madame  de  la  Bastie  is  a  Ger- 
man ;  she  cannot  tolerate  French  etiquette,  and  I  allow  myself 
to  be  guided  by  my  two  women.  I  would  always  rather  ride 
inside  a  carriage  than  on  the  box.  We  can  discuss  such 
serious  matters  in  jest,  for  we  have  not  yet  seen  the  Due 
d'Herouville,  and  I  do  not  believe  in  marriages  arranged 
by  proxy  any  more  than  in  suitors  forced  on  girls  by  their 
parents." 

"  That  is  a  declaration  equally  disheartening  and  encour- 
aging to  two  young  men  who  seek  in  marriage  the  philosopher's 
stone  of  happiness,"  said  Canalis. 

"  Do  you  not  think  it  desirable,  necessary,  and  indeed  good 
policy  to  stipulate  for  perfect  liberty  for  the  parents,  the 
daughter,  and  the  suitors?"  asked  Charles  Mignon. 

Canalis,  at  a  glance  from  la  Briere,  made  no  reply,  and  the 
conversation  continued  on  indifferent  subjects.  After  walking 
two  or  three  times  round  the  garden,  the  father  withdrew, 
begging  the  two  friends  to  pay  their  visit. 

"  That  is  our  dismissal,"  cried  Canalis.  "  You  understood 
it  as  I  did.  After  all,  in  his  place  I  should  not  hesitate  between 
the  master  of  the  horse  and  either  of  us,  charming  fellows  as 
we  may  be. ' ' 

"I  do  not  think  so,"  said  la  Briere,  "  I  believe  that  the 
worthy  officer  came  simply  to  gratify  his  own  impatience  to 
>  see  you,  and  to  declare  his  neutrality  while  opening  his  house 
to  us.  Modeste,  bewitched  by  your  fame  and  misled  as  to  my 
identity,  finds  herself  between  poetry  and  hard  fact.  It  is  my 
misfortune  to  be  the  hard  fact." 

"Germain,"  said  Canalis  to  the  servant  who  came  in  to 
clear  away  the  coffee,  "  order  the  carriage  round.  We  will 
go  out  in  half  an  hour  and  take  a  drive  before  going  to  the 

chalet." 

12 


178  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

The  two  young  men  were  equally  impatient  to  see  Modeste, 
but  la  Briere  dreaded  the  meeting,  while  Canalis  looked  for- 
ward to  it  with  a  confidence  inspired  by  conceit.  Ernest's 
impulsive  advances  to  her  father,  and  the  flattery  by  which  he 
had  soothed  the  merchant's  aristocratic  pride  while  showing 
up  the  poet's  awkwardness,  made  Canalis  determine  that  he 
would  play  a  part.  He  resolved  that  he  would  display  all  his 
powers  of  attraction,  but  at  the  same  time  affect  indifference, 
seem  to  disdain  Modeste,  and  so  goad  the  girl's  vanity.  A 
disciple  of  the  beautiful  Duchesse  de  Chaulieu,  he  here  showed 
himself  worthy  of  his  reputation  as  a  man  who  knew  women 
well ;  though  he  did  not  really  know  them,  since  no  man 
does  who  is  the  happy  victim  of  an  exclusive  passion.  While 
the  luckless  Ernest,  sunk  in  a  corner  of  the  carriage,  was 
crushed  by  the  terrors  of  true  love  and  the  anticipated  wrath, 
scorn,  contempt — all  the  lightnings  of  an  offended  and  dis- 
appointed girl — and  kept  gloomy  silence,  Canalis,  not  less 
silent,  was  preparing  himself  like  an  actor  studying  an  im- 
portant part  in  a  new  play. 

Neither  of  them  certainly  looked  like  a  happy  man. 

For  Canalis,  indeed,  the  matter  was  serious.  To  him  the 
mere  fancy  for  marrying  involved  the  breach  of  the  serious 
friendship  which  had  bound  him  for  nearly  ten  years  to  the 
Duchesse  de  Chaulieu.  Though  he  had  screened  his  journey 
under  the  common  excuse  of  overwork — in  which  no  woman 
ever  believes,  even  if  it  is  true — his  conscience  troubled  him 
somewhat ;  but  to  la  Briere  the  word  conscience  seemed  so 
Jesuitical  that  he  only  shrugged  his  shoulders  when  the  poet 
spoke  of  his  scruples. 

"Your  conscience,  my  boy,  seems  to  me  to  mean  simply 
your  fear  of  losing  the  gratifications  of  vanity,  some  solid 
advantages,  and  a  pleasant  habit  in  sacrificing  Madame  de 
Chaulieu' s  affection  ;  for,  if  you  are  successful  with  Modeste, 
you  will  certainly  have  nothing  to  regret  in  the  aftermath  of  a 
passion  so  constantly  reaped  during  these  eight  years  past. 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  179 

If  you  tell  me  that  you  are  afraid  of  offending  your  protec- 
tress, should  she  learn  the  real  reason  of  your  visit  here,  I  can 
easily  believe  you.  To  throw  over  the  Duchess  and  fail  at 
the  chalet  is  staking  too  much  !  And  you  mistake  the  distress 
of  this  alternative  for  remorse  !  " 

"You  know  nothing  about  sentiment!"  cried  Canalis, 
nettled,  as  a  man  always  is  when  he  asks  for  a  compliment 
and  hears  the  truth. 

"  That  is  just  what  a  bigamist  would  say  to  a  dozen  jury- 
men," said  la  Briere,  laughing. 

This  epigram  made  a  yet  more  disagreeable  impression  on 
Canalis ;  he  thought  la  Briere  much  too  clever  and  too  free 
for  a  secretary. 

The  arrival  of  a  handsome  carriage,  with  a  coachman  in 
Canalis'  livery,  made  all  the  greater  sensation  at  the  chalet 
because  the  two  gentlemen  were  expected,  and  all  the  persons 
of  this  tale,  excepting  only  the  Duke  and  Butscha,  were  as- 
sembled there. 

"Which  is  the  poet?"  asked  Madame  Latournelle  of 
Dumay,  as  they  stood  in  the  window-bay,  where  she  had 
posted  herself,  on  hearing  the  carriage  wheels,  to  inspect  the 
visitors. 

"  The  one  who  marches  like  a, drum-major,"  replied  the 
cashier. 

"  Ah,  hah  !  "  said  the  lady,  studying  Melchior,  who  strutted 
like  a  man  on  whom  the  world  has  its  eye. 

Though  rather  severe,  Dumay's  judgment — a  simple  soul, 
if  ever  man  was — had  hit  the  mark.  Canalis  was,  morally 
speaking,  a  sort  of  Narcissus ;  this  was  the  fault  of  the  great 
lady  who  flattered  him  immensely,  and  spoilt  him  as  women 
older  than  their  adorers  always  will  flatter  and  spoil  men.  A 
woman  past  her  first  youth,  who  means  to  attach  a  man  per- 
manently, begins  by  glorifying  his  faults,  so  as  to  make  all 
rivalry  impossible  ;  for  her  rival  cannot  at  once  be  in  the 
secret  of  that  subtle  flattery  to  which  a  man  so  easily  becomes 


180  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

accustomed.  Coxcombs  are  the  product  of  this  feminine  in- 
dustry when  they  are  not  coxcombs  by  nature. 

Hence  Canalis,  caught  young  by  the  beautiful  Duchess, 
justified  himself  for  his  airs  and  graces  by  telling  himself  that 
they  pleased  a  woman  whose  taste  was  law.  Subtle  as  these 
shades  of  feeling  are,  it  is  not  impossible  to  render  them. 
Thus  Melchior  had  a  real  talent  for  reading  aloud,  which  had 
been  much  admired,  and  too  flattering  praise  had  led  him  into 
an  exaggerated  manner,  which  neither  poet  nor  actor  can  set 
bounds  to,  and  which  made  de  Marsay  say — always  de  Marsay 
— that  he  did  not  declaim,  but  brayed  out  his  verses,  so  fully 
would  he  mouth  the  vowels  as  he  listened  to  himself.  To  use 
the  slang  of  the  stage,  he  pumped  himself  out,  and  made  too 
long  pauses.  He  would  examine  his  audience  with  a  knowing 
look,  and  give  himself  self-satisfied  airs,  with  the  aids  to 
emphasis  of  "sawing  the  air"  and  "windmill  action" — 
picturesque  phrases,  as  the  catchwords  of  art  always  are. 
Canalis  indeed  had  imitators,  and  was  the  head  of  a  school 
in  this  style.  This  melodramatic  emphasis  had  slightly  in- 
fected his  conversation  and  given  it  a  declamatory  tone,  as 
will  have  been  seen  in  his  interview  with  Dumay.  When 
once  the  mind  has  become  foppish,  manners  show  the  influ- 
ence. Canalis  had  come  a$  last  to  a  sort  of  rhythmic  gait,  he 
invented  attitudes,  stole  looks  at  himself  in  the  glass,  and 
made  his  language  harmonize  with  the  position  he  assumed. 
He  thought  so  much  of  the  effect  to  be  produced,  that  more 
than  once  Blondet,  a  mocking  spirit,  had  bet  he  would  pull 
him  up  short — and  had  done  it — merely  by  fixing  a  set  gaze 
on  the  poet's  hair,  or  boots,  or  the  tail  of  his  coat. 

At  the  end  of  ten  years  these  antics,  which  at  first  had 
passed  under  favor  of  youthful  exuberance,  had  grown  stale, 
and  all  the  more  so  as  Melchior  himself  seemed  somewhat  worn. 
Fashionable  life  is  as  fatiguing  for  men  as  for  women,  and  per- 
haps the  Duchess'  twenty  years'  seniority  weighed  on  Canalis 
more  than  on  her ;  for  the  world  saw  her  still  handsome,  with- 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  181 

out  a  wrinkle,  without  rouge,  and  without  heart.  Alas !  neither 
men  nor  women  have  a  friend  to  warn  them  at  the  moment 
when  the  fragrance  of  modesty  turns  rancid,  when  a  caressing 
look  is  like  a  theatrical  trick,  when  the  expressiveness  of  a 
face  becomes  a  grimace,  when  the  mechanism  of  their  liveli- 
ness shows  its  rusty  skeleton.  Genius  alone  can  renew  its 
youth  like  the  serpent,  and  in  grace,  as  in  all  else,  only  the 
heart  never  grows  stale.  Persons  of  genuine  feeling  are  single- 
hearted.  Now  in  Canalis,  as  we  know,  the  heart  was  dry. 
He  wasted  the  beauty  of  his  gaze  by  assuming  at  inappropriate 
moments  the  intensity  that  deep  thought  gives  to  the  eyes. 

And,  then,  praise  to  him  was  an  article  of  exchange,  in 
which  he  wanted  to  have  all  the  advantage.  His  way  of  pay- 
ing compliments,  which  charmed  superficial  persons,  to  those 
of  more  refined  taste  might  seem  insultingly  commonplace, 
and  the  readiness  of  his  flattery  betrayed  a  set  purpose.  In 
fact,  Melchior  lied  like  a  courtier.  To  the  Due  de  Chaulieu, 
who  had  proved  an  ineffective  speaker  when,  as  minister  for 
foreign  affairs,  he  had  been  obliged  to  mount  the  tribune, 
Canalis  had  unblushingly  said,  "Your  excellency  was  sub- 
lime!" 

Many  men  like  Canalis  might  have  had  their  affectations 
eradicated  by  failure  administered  in  small  doses.  Trifling, 
indeed,  as  such  faults  are  in  the  gilded  drawing-rooms  of  the 
Faubourg  Saint-Germain — where  every  one  contributes  a  quota 
of  absurdities,  and  this  kind  of  audacity,  artificiality,  infla- 
tion if  you  will,  has  a  background  of  excessive  luxury  and 
magnificent  dress  which  is  perhaps  an  excuse  for  it — they  are 
monstrously  conspicuous  in  the  depths  of  the  country,  where 
what  is  thought  ridiculous  is  the  very  opposite  of  all  this. 
Canalis,  indeed,  at  once  pompous  and  mannered,  could  not 
now  metamorphose  himself;  he  had  had  time  to  set  in  the 
mould  into  which  the  Duchess  had  cast  him,  and  he  was, 
moreover,  very  Parisian,  or,  if  you  prefer  it,  very  French. 
The  Parisian  is  amazed  that  everything,  everywhere,  is  not 


182  MODESTE   MIGNON. 

what  it  is  in  Paris,  and  the  Frenchman  that  it  is  not  what  it 
is  in  France.  Good  taste  consists  in  accommodating  one's  self 
to  the  manners  of  other  places  without  losing  too  much  of  one's 
native  character,  as  Alcibiades  did — the  model  of  a  gentleman. 
True  grace  is  elastic.  It  yields  to  every  circumstance,  it  is  in 
harmony  with  every  social  atmosphere,  it  knows  how  to  walk 
in  the  street  in  a  cheap  dress,  remarkable  only  for  its  fitness, 
instead  of  parading  the  feathers  and  gaudy  hues  which  some 
vulgar  people  flaunt. 

Now,  Canalis,  influenced  by  a  woman  who  loved  him  for 
her  own  sake  rather  than  for  his,  wanted  to  be  himself  a  law, 
and  to  remain  what  he  was  wherever  he  might  go.  He  be- 
lieved that  he  carried  his  private  public  with  him — a  mistake 
shared  by  some  other  great  men  in  Paris. 

While  the  poet  made  a  studied  entrance  into  the  little 
drawing-room,  la  Briere  sneaked  in  like  a  dog  that  is  afraid 
of  being  beaten. 

"  Ah,  here  is  my  soldier  !  "  said  Canalis,  on  seeing  Dumay, 
after  paying  Madame  Mignon  his  respects,  and  bowing  to  the 
other  women.  "Your  anxieties  are  relieved,  I  hope?"  he 
went  on,  offering  him  his  hand  with  a  flourish.  "But  the 
sight  of  mademoiselle  sufficiently  explains  their  gravity.  I 
spoke  only  of  earthly  beings,  not  of  angels." 

The  hearers  by  their  expression  asked  for  a  clue  to  this 
riddle. 

"Yes,  I  shall  regard  it  as  a  triumph,"  the  poet  went  on, 
understanding  that  everybody  wanted  an  explanation,  "  that 
I  succeeded  in  alarming  one  of  those  men  of  iron  whom  Na- 
poleon succeeded  in  finding  to  form  the  piles  on  which  he 
tried  to  found  an  empire  too  vast  to  be  permanent.  Only 
time  can  serve  to  cement  such  a  structure  !  But  have  I  any 
right  to  boast  of  my  triumph  ?  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  it ; 
it  was  the  triumph  of  fancy  over  fact.  Your  battles,  dear 
Monsieur  Dumay ;  your  heroic  cavalry  charges,  Monsieur  le 
Comte ;  in  short,  war  was  the  form  assumed  by  Napoleon's 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  183 

thoughts.  And  of  all  these  things  what  remains  ?  The  grass 
that  grows  over  them  knows  nothing  of  them,  nor  will  har- 
vests mark  the  spot ;  but  for  history,  but  for  writing,  the 
future  might  know  nothing  of  this  heroic  age  !  Thus  your 
fifteen  years  of  struggle  are  no  more  than  ideas,  and  that  is 
what  will  save  the  Empire ;  poets  will  make  a  poem  of  it. 
A  land  that  can  win  such  battles  ought  to  be  able  to  sing 
them  !  " 

Canalis  paused  to  collect,  by  a  sweeping  glance  at  their 
faces,  the  tribute  of  admiration  due  to  him  from  these  country 
folk. 

"You  cannot  doubt,  monsieur,"  said  Madame  Mignon, 
"how  much  I  regret  being  unable  to  see  you,  from  the  way 
you  indemnify  me  by  the  pleasure  I  feel  in  listening  to  you." 

Modeste,  dressed  as  she  had  been  on  the  day  when  this 
story  opens,  having  made  up  her  mind  to  think  Canalis  sub- 
lime, sat  speechless,  and  dropped  her  embroidery,  which  hung 
from  her  fingers  at  the  end  of  the  needleful  of  cotton. 

"  Modeste,  this  is  Monsieur  de  la  Briere.  Monsieur  Ernest 
— my  daughter,"  said  Charles  Mignon,  thinking  that  the  sec- 
retary was  thrown  rather  too  much  into  the  background. 

The  young  lady  bowed  coldly  to  Ernest,  giving  him  a  look 
intended  to  convey  to  the  whole  party  that  she  had  never 
seen  him  before. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  she,  without  a  blush,  "  the  fer- 
vent admiration  I  profess  for  our  greatest  poet  is,  in  my 
friends'  eyes,  a  sufficient  excuse  for  my  having  seen  no  one 
else." 

The  clear,  young  voice,  with  a  ring  in  it  like  the  famous 
tones  of  Mademoiselle  Mars,  enchanted  the  poor  referendary, 
already  dazzled  by  Modeste's  beauty,  and  in  his  amazement 
he  spoke  a  few  words  which,  had  they  been  true,  would  have 
been  sublime 

"  But  he  is  my  friend,"  said  he. 

(l  Then  you  will  have  forgiven  me,"  she  replied. 


184  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

"He  is  more  than  a  friend,"  cried  Canalis,  taking  Ernest 
by  the  shoulder,  and  leaning  on  him  as  Alexander  leaned  on 
Hephaestion.  "We  love  each  other  like  two  brothers " 

Madame  Latournelle  cut  the  poet  short  in  the  middle  of 
his  speech  by  saying  to  her  husband — 

"  Surely  monsieur  is  the  gentleman  we  saw  in  church  ?  " 

"Why  not?"  said  Charles  Mignon,  seeing  Ernest  color. 

Modeste  gave  no  sign,  but  took  up  her  work  again. 

"  You  may  be  right ;  I  have  been  twice  to  le  Havre,"  said 
la  Briere,  sitting  down  by  the  side  of  Dumay  after  again 
saluting  him. 

Canalis,  bewildered  by  Modeste's  beauty,  misunderstood 
the  admiration  she  expressed,  and  flattered  himself  that  his 
efforts  had  been  perfectly  successful. 

"  I  should  think  a  man  of  genius  devoid  of  heart  if  he  had 
not  about  him  some  attached  friend,"  said  Modeste,  to  revive 
the  subject  interrupted  by  Madame  Latournelle 's  awkward- 
ness. 

"  Mademoiselle,  Ernest's  devotion  is  enough  to  make  me 
believe  that  I  am  good  for  something,"  said  Canalis.  "For 
my  dear  Pylades  is  full  of  talent ;  he  was  quite  half  of  the 
greatest  minister  we  have  had  since  the  peace.  Though  he 
fills  a  distinguished  position,  he  consents  to  be  my  tutor  in 
politics.  He  teaches  me  business,  he  feeds  me  with  his  ex- 
perience, while  he  might  aspire  to  the  highest  office.  Oh  ! 
he  is  much  superior  to  me " 

At  a  gesture  from  Modeste,  Melchior   added  gracefully — 

"The  poetry  I  write  he  bears  in  his  heart;  and  if  I 
dare  speak  so  to  his  face,  it  is  because  he  is  as  diffident  as 
a  nun." 

"  Come,  come,  that  will  do,"  said  la  Briere,  who  did  not 
know  how  to  look.  "  My  dear  fellow,  you  might  be  a  mother 
wanting  to  get  her  daughter  married." 

"  How  can  you  think,  monsieur,  of  becoming  a  politician?" 
said  Charles  Mignon  to  Canalis. 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  185 

"  For  a  poet  it  is  abdication  !  "  said  Modeste.  "  Politics 
are  the  stand-by  of  men  without  imagination,"  she  added  as 
an  after-thought. 

"  Nay,  mademoiselle,  in  these  days  the  tribune  is  the 
grandest  stage  in  the  world ;  it  has  taken  the  place  of  the 
lists  of  chivalry;  it  will  be  the  meeting-place  of  every 
kind  of  intellect,  as  of  old  the  army  was  of  every  form  of 
courage. ' ' 

Canalis  had  mounted  his  war-horse;  for  ten  minutes  he 
declaimed  on  the  subject  of  political  life :  Poetry  was  the 
preface  to  a  statesman.  In  these  days  the  orator's  province 
was  lofty  generalization  ;  he  was  the  pastor  of  ideas.  If  a 
poet  could  show  his  countrymen  the  road  of  the  future,  did 
he  cease  to  be  himself?  He  quoted  Chateaubriand,  asserting 
that  he  would  some  day  be  more  important  on  his  political 
than  on  his  literary  side.  The  French  Chambers  would  be 
the  guiding  light  of  humanity.  Contests  by  words  henceforth 
had  taken  the  place  of  fighting  on  the  battlefield.  Such  or 
such  a  sitting  had  been  a  second  Austerlitz  and  the  speakers 
had  risen  to  the  dignity  of  generals  ;  they  spent  as  much  of 
their  life,  courage,  and  strength,  they  wore  themselves  out  as 
much  as  generals  in  war.  Was  not  speech  almost  the  most 
exhausting  expenditure  of  vital  power  that  man  could  indulge 
in,  etc.,  etc. 

This  long  harangue,  made  up  of  modern  commonplace,  but 
clothed  in  high-sounding  phrases,  newly  coined  words,  and 
intended  to  prove  that  the  Baron  de  Canalis  must  some  day 
'be  one  of  the  glories  of  the  tribune,  made  a  deep  impression 
on  the  notary,  on  Gobenheim,  on  Madame  Latournelle,  and 
Madame  Mignon.  Modeste  felt  as  if  she  were  at  the  play 
and  fired  with  enthusiasm  for  the  actor,  exactly  as  Ernest  was 
in  her  presence ;  for  though  the  secretary  knew  all  these  fine 
phrases  by  heart,  he  was  listening  to  them  by  the  light  of  the 
girl's  eyes,  and  falling  in  love  to  the  verge  of  madness.  To 
this  genuine  lover  Modeste  had  eclipsed  all  the  different  Mod- 


186  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

estes  he  had  pictured  to  himself  when  reading  or  answering 
her  letters. 

This  visit,  of  which  Canalis  had  fixed  the  limits  beforehand, 
for  he  would  not  give  his  admirers  time  to  get  tired  of 
him,  ended  by  an  invitation  to  dinner  on  the  following 
Monday. 

"We  shall  no  longer  be  at  the  chalet,"  said  the  Comte 
de  la  Bastie.  "It  is  Dumay's  home  once  more.  I  am 
going  back  to  my  old  house  by  an  agreement  for  six 
months,  with  the  right  of  redemption,  which  I  have  just 
signed  with  Monsieur  Vilquin  in  my  friend  Latournelle's 
office." 

"  I  only  hope,"  said  Dumay,  "  that  Vilquin  may  not  be  in 
a  position  to  repay  the  sum  you  have  loaned  him  on  it." 

"You  will  be  in  a  home  suitable  to  your  fortune,"  said 
Canalis. 

"  To  the  fortune  I  am  supposed  to  have,"  Charles  Mignon 
put  in. 

"It  would  be  a  pity,"  said  the  poet,  with  a  charming  bow 
to  Modeste,  "  that  this  Madonna  should  lack  a  frame  worthy 
of  her  divine  affections." 

This  was  all  that  Canalis  said  about  Modeste,  for  he  had 
affected  not  to  look  at  her,  and  to  behave  like  a  man  who  is 
not  at  liberty  to  think  of  marriage. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Madame  Mignon,  he  is  immensely  clever !  " 
exclaimed  the  notary's  wife,  when  the  gravel  was  heard  crunch- 
ing under  the  Parisians'  feet. 

"  Is  he  rich?  that  is  the  question,"  said  Gobenheim. 

Modeste  stood  at  the  window,  not  missing  a  single  gesture 
of  the  great  poet's,  and  never  casting  a  glance  on  Ernest  de 
la  Briere.  When  Monsieur  Mignon  came  into  the  room 
again,  and  Modeste,  after  receiving  a  parting  bow  from  the 
two  young  men  as  the  carriage  turned,  had  resumed  her  seat, 
a  deep  discussion  ensued,  such  as  country  people  indulge  in 
on  Paris  visitors  after  a  first  meeting.  Gobenheim  reiterated 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  ]87 

his  remark,  is  he  rich?"  in  reply  to  the  trio  of  praise  sung 
by  Madame  Latournelle,  Modeste,  and  her  mother. 

"  Rich  ? ' '  retorted  Modeste.  "  What  can  it  matter  ?  Can 
you  not  see  that  Monsieur  de  Canalis  is  a  man  destined  to  fill 
the  highest  posts  in  the  government?  He  has  more  than 
wealth ;  he  has  the  means  of  acquiring  wealth  !  " 

"  He  will  be  an  ambassador  or  a  minister,"  said  Monsieur 
Mignon. 

"The  taxpayers  may  have  to  pay  for  his  funeral  neverthe- 
less," said  little  Lautournelle. 

"  Why?"  asked  Charles  Mignon. 

"  He  strikes  me  as  being  a  man  to  squander  all  the  fortunes 
which  Mademoiselle  Modeste  so  liberally  credits  him  with  the 
power  of  earning." 

"  How  can  Modeste  help  being  liberal  to  a  man  who  regards 
her  as  a  Madonna?"  said  Dumay,  faithful  to  the  aversion 
Canalis  had  roused  in  him. 

Gobenheim  was  preparing  the  whist-table,  with  all  the  more 
eagerness  because  since  Monsieur  Mignon's  return  Latournelle 
and  Dumay  had  allowed  themselves  to  play  for  ten  sous  a 
point. 

"  Now,  my  little  darling,"  said  the  father  to  his  daughter 
in  the  window  recess,  "you  must  own  that  papa  thinks  of 
everything.  In  a  week,  if  you  send  orders  this  evening  to 
the  dressmaker  you  used  to  employ  in  Paris  and  to  your 
other  tradesmen,  you  may  display  yourself  in  all  the  magnifi- 
cence of  an  heiress,  while  I  take  time  to  settle  into  our  old 
house.  You  shall  have  a  nice  pony,  so  take  care  to  have  a 
habit  made — the  master  of  the  horse  deserves  that  little  at- 
tention." 

"All  the  more  so  as  we  must  show  our  friends  the  coun- 
try," said  Modeste,  whose  cheeks  were  recovering  the  hues  of 
health. 

"  The  secretary,"  observed  Madame  Mignon,  "  is  not  much 
to  speak  of," 


188  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

"  He  is  a  little  simpleton,"  said  Madame  Latournelle.  "The 
poet  was  very  attentive  to  everybody.  He  remembered  to 
thank  Latournelle  for  finding  him  a  house,  by  saying  to  me 
that  he  seemed  to  have  consulted  a  lady's  taste.  And  the 
other  stood  there  as  gloomy  as  a  Spaniard,  staring  hard,  look- 
ing as  if  he  could  swallow  Modeste.  If  he  had  looked  at  me 
so,  I  should  have  been  frightened." 

"  He  has  a  very  pleasant  voice,"  Madame  Mignon  observed. 

"  He  must  have  come  to  le  Havre  to  make  inquiries  about 
the  house  of  Mignon  for  the  poet's  benefit,"  said  Modeste, 
with  a  sly  look  at  her  father.  "  He  is  certainly  the  man  we 
saw  in  church." 

Madame  Dumay  and  the  Latournelles  accepted  this  explana- 
tion of  Ernest's  former  journey. 

"I  tell  you  what,  Ernest,"  said  Canalis  when  they  had 
gone  twenty  yards,  "I  see  no  one  in  the  Paris  world,  not 
a  single  girl  to  marry,  that  can  compare  with  this  adorable 
creature  !  " 

"  Oh  !  it  is  all  settled,"  replied  la  Briere,  with  concentrated 
bitterness;  "she  loves  you — or,  if  you  choose,  she  will  love 
you.  Your  fame  half-won  the  battle.  In  short,  you  have 
only  to  command.  You  can  go  there  alone  next  time ;  Mod- 
este has  the  deepest  contempt  for  me,  and  she  is  right ;  but  I 
do  not  see  why  I  should  condemn  myself  to  the  torture  of 
going  to  admire,  desire,  and  adore  what  I  can  never  possess." 

After  a  few  condoling  speeches,  in  which  Canalis  betrayed 
his  satisfaction  at  having  produced  a  new  edition  of  Caesar's 
famous  motto,  he  hinted  at  his  wish  to  be  "off"  with  the 
Duchesse  de  Chaulieu.  La  Briere,  who  could  not  endure  the 
conversation,  made  an  excuse  of  the  loveliness  of  a  rather 
doubtful  night  to  get  out  and  walk ;  he  flew  like  a  madman 
to  the  cliffs,  where  he  stayed  till  half-past  ten,  given  up  to  a 
sort  of  frenzy,  sometimes  walking  at  a  great  pace  and  spout- 
ing soliloquies,  sometimes  standing  still  or  sitting  down,  with- 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  igg 

out  observing  the  uneasiness  he  was  giving  to  two  coastguards 
on  the  lookout.  After  falling  in  love  with  Modeste's  mental 
culture  and  aggressive  candor,  he  now  added  his  adoration  of 
her  beauty,  that  is  to  say,  an  unreasoning  and  inexplicable 
passion,  to  all  the  other  causes  that  had  brought  him  ten  days 
ago  to  church  at  le  Havre. 

Then  he  wandered  back  to  the  chalet,  where  the  Pyrenean 
dogs  barked-  at  him  so  furiously  that  he  could  not  allow  him- 
self the  happiness  of  gazing  at  Modeste's  windows.  In  love, 
all  these  things  are  of  no  more  account  than  the  under-paint- 
ing covered  by  the  final  touches  is  to  the  painter ;  but  they 
are  nevertheless  the  whole  of  love,  as  concealed  painstaking  is 
the  whole  of  art :  the  outcome  is  a  great  painter  and  a  perfect 
lover,  which  the  public  and  the  woman  worship  at  last — often 
too  late. 

"Well !  "  cried  he  aloud,  "I  will  stay,  I  will  endure.  I 
shall  see  her  and  love  her  selfishly,  for  my  own  joy !  Modeste 
will  be  my  sun,  my  life,  I  shall  breathe  by  her  breath,  I  shall 
rejoice  in  her  joys,  I  shall  pine  over  her  sorrows,  even  if  she 
should  be  the  wife  of  that  egoist  Canalis " 

"  That  is  something  like  love,  monsieur  !  "  said  a  voice 
proceeding  from  a  bush  by  the  wayside.  "  Bless  me !  is 
everybody  in  love  with  Mademoiselle  de  la  Bastie?" 

Butscha  started  forth  and  gazed  at  la  Briere.  Ernest 
sheathed  his  wrath  as  he  looked  at  the  dwarf  in  the  moon- 
light, and  walked  on  a  few  steps  without  replying. 

"  Two  soldiers  serving  in  the  same  company  should  be  on 
better  terms  than  that,"  said  Butscha.  "If  you  are  not  in 
love  with  Canalis,  I  am  not  very  sweet  on  him  myself." 

"He  is  my  friend,"  said  Ernest,  earnestly  scrutinizing  the 
speaker. 

"Oh!  then  you  are  the  little  secretary?"  replied  the 
hunchback. 

"  I  would  have  you  to  know,  monsieur,"  said  la  Briere, 
"that  I  am  no  man's  secretary.  I  have  the  honor  to  call  my- 


190  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

self  councilor  to  one  of  the  high  courts  of  justice  of  this 
realm." 

"I  have  the  honor,  then,  of  making  my  bow  to  Monsieur 
de  la  Briere,"  §aid  Butscha.  "  I  have  the  honor  to  call  my- 
self head  clerk  to  Maitre  Latournelle,  the  first  notary  in  le 
Havre,  and  I  certainly  am  better  off  than  you  are.  Yes — for 
I  have  had  the  happiness  of  seeing  Mademoiselle  Modeste  de 
la  Bastie  almost  every  afternoon  for  the  last  four  years,  and  I 
propose  to  live  within  her  ken  as  one  of  the  King's  house- 
hold lives  at  the  Tuileries.  If  I  were  offered  the  throne  of 
Russia,  I  should  reply,  '  I  like  the  sun  too  well !  '  Is  not 
that  as  much  as  to  say,  monsieur,  that  I  care  more  for  her 
than  for  myself — with  all  respect  and  honor?  And  do  you 
suppose  that  the  high  and  mighty  Duchesse  de  Chaulieu  will 
look  with  a  friendly  eye  on  the  happiness  of  Madame  de 
Canalis,  when  her  maid,  who  is  in  love  with  Monsieur  Ger- 
main, and  is  already  uneasy  at  that  fascinating  valet's  long 
absence  at  le  Havre,  as  she  dresses  her  mistress'  hair  com- 
plains? " 

"  How  do  you  know  all  this?  "  said  la  Briere,  interrupting 
him. 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  am  a  notary's  clerk,"  replied  Butscha. 
"  And  have  you  not  observed  that  I  have  a  hump?  It  is  full 
of  ingenuity,  monsieur.  I  made  myself  cousin  to  Made- 
moiselle Philoxene  Jacmin,  of  Honfleur,  where  my  mother 
was  born,  also  a  Jacmin — there  are  eleven  branches  of  Jac- 
mins  at  Honfleur.  And  so  my  fair  cousin,  tempted  by  the 
hope  of  a  highly  improbable  legacy,  told  me  a  good  many 
things." 

"And  the  Duchess  is  vindictive?"  said  la  Briere. 

"As  vengeful  as  a  queen,  says  Philoxene.  She  has  not 
yet  forgiven  the  Duke  for  being  only  her  husband,"  replied 
Butscha.  "  She  hates  as  she  loves.  I  am  thoroughly  in- 
formed as  to  her  temper,  her  dress,  her  tastes,  her  religion, 
and  her  meanness,  for  Philoxene  stripped  her  soul  and 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  191 

body.  I  went  to  the  opera  to  see  Madame  de  Chaulieu,  and 
I  do  not  regret  my  ten  francs— I  am  not  thinking  of  the  piece. 
If  my  hypothetical  cousin  had  not  told  me  that  her  mistress 
had  seen  fifty  springs,  I  should  have  thought  it  lavish  to  give 
her  thirty;  she  has  known  no  winter,  my  lady  the  Duchess." 

"  True,"  said  la  Briere,  "she  is  a  cameo  preserved  by  the 
onyx.  Canalis  would  be  in  great  difficulties  if  the  Duchess 
knew  of  his  plans  ;  and  I  hope,  monsieur,  that  you  will  go  no 
further  in  an  espionage  so  unworthy  of  an  honest  man." 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Butscha  proudly,  "  to  me  Modeste  is  the 
State.  I  do  not  spy,  I  forestall !  The  Duchesse  de  Chaulieu 
will  come  here  if  necessary,  or  will  remain  quietly  where  she 
is  if  I  think  it  advisable." 

"You?" 

"  I." 

"And  by  what  means?"  asked  la  Briere. 

"Ah,  that  is  the  question,"  said  the  little  hunchback.  He 
plucked  a  blade  of  grass.  "This  little  plant  imagines  that 
man  builds  palaces  for  its  accommodation,  and  one  day  it  dis- 
lodges the  most  firmly  cemented  marble,  just  as  the  populace, 
having  found  a  foothold  in  the  structure  of  the  feudal  system, 
overthrew  it.  The  power  of  the  weakest  that  can  creep  in 
everywhere  is  greater  than  that  of  the  strong  man  who  relies 
on  his  cannon.  There  are  three  of  us,  a  Swiss  league,  who 
have  sworn  that  Modeste  shall  be  happy,  and  who  would  sell 
our  honor  for  her  sake.  Good-night,  monsieur.  If  you  love 
Mademoiselle  de  la  Bastie,  forget  this  conversation,  and  give 
me  your  hand  to  shake,  for  you  seem  to  me  to  have  a  heart ! 
I  was  pining  to  see  the  chalet ;  I  got  here  just  as  she  put  out 
her  candle.  I  saw  you  when  the  dogs  gave  tongue,  I  heard 
you  raving;  and  so  I  took  the  liberty  of  telling  you  that  we 
serve  under  the  same  colors,  in  the  regiment  of  loyal  de- 
votion !  " 

"  Good,"  replied  la  Briere,  pressing  the  hunchback's  hand. 
"Then  be  kind  enough  to  tell  me  whether  Mademoiselle 


192  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

Modeste  ever  fell  in  love  with  a  man  before  her  secret  cor- 
respondence with  Canalis?" 

"Oh!"  cried  Butscha,  "the  mere  question  is  an  insult! 
And  even  now  who  knows  whether  she  is  in  love  ?  Does  she 
herself  know?  She  has  rushed  into  enthusiasm  for  the  mind, 
the  genius,  the  spirit  of  this  verse-monger,  this  vendor  of 
literary  pinchbeck ;  but  she  will  study  him — we  shall  all  study 
him ;  I  will  find  some  means  of  making  his  true  character  peep 
out  from  beneath  the  carapace  of  the  well-mannered  man,  and 
we  shall  see  the  insignificant  head  of  his  ambition  and  his 
vanity,"  said  Butscha,  rubbing  his  hands.  "Now,  unless 
mademoiselle  is  mad  enough  to  die  of  it " 

"  Oh,  she  sat  entranced  before  him,  as  if  he  were  a  mir- 
acle !  "  cried  la  Briere,  revealing  the  secret  of  his  jealousy. 

"If  he  is  really  a  good  fellow,  and  loyal,  and  loves  her,  if 
he  is  worthy  of  her,"  Butscha  went  on,  "  if  he  gives  up  his 
Duchess,  it  is  the  Duchess  I  will  spread  a  net  for  !  There,  my 
dear  sir,  follow  that  path,  and  you  will  be  at  home  in  ten 
minutes." 

But  Butscha  presently  turned  back  and  called  to  the  hapless 
Ernest,  who,  as  an  ardent  lover,  would  have  stayed  all  night 
to  talk  of  Modeste. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Butscha,  "  I  have  not  yet  had  the  honor 
of  seeing  our  great  poet ;  I  am  anxious  to  study  that  splendid 
phenomenon  in  the  exercise  of  his  functions ;  do  me  the  kind- 
ness to  come  and  spend  the  evening  at  the  chalet  the  day  after 
to-morrow ;  and  stay  some  time,  for  a  man  does  not  com- 
pletely betray  himself  in  an  hour.  I  shall  know,  before  any 
one,  if  he  loves,  or  ever  will  love,  or  ever  could  love  Made- 
moiselle Modeste." 

"You  are  very  young  to " 

"To  be  a  professor!"  interrupted  Butscha.  "Ah,  mon- 
sieur, the  deformed  come  into  the  world  a  hundred  years  old. 
Besides,  a  sick  man,  you  see,  when  he  has  been  ill  a  long 
time,  becomes  more  knowing  than  his  doctor ;  he  understands 


MODESTE  M1GNON.  193 

the  ways  of  the  disease,  which  is  more  than  a  conscientious 
doctor  always  does.  Well,  in  the  same  way,  a  man  who  loves 
a  woman,  while  the  woman  cannot  help  scorning  him  for  his 
ugliness  or  his  misshapen  person,  is  at  last  so  qualified  in  love 
that  he  could  pass  as  a  seducer,  as  the  sick  man  at  last  recovers 
his  health.  Folly  alone  is  incurable.  Since  the  age  of  six, 
and  I  am  now  five-and-twenty,  I  have  had  neither  father  nor 
mother ;  public  charity  has  been  my  mother  and  the  King's 
commissioner  my  father.  Nay,  do  not  be  distressed,"  he 
said,  in  reply  to  Ernest's  expression,  "I  am  less  miserable 

than  my  position Well,  since  I  was  six  years  old,  when 

the  insolent  eyes  of  a  servant  of  Madame  Latournelle's  told 
me  that  I  had  no  right  to  wish  to  love,  I  have  loved  and  have 
studied  women.  I  began  with  ugly  ones — it  is  well  to  take 
the  bull  by  the  horns.  So  I  took  for  the  first  subject  of  my 
studies  Madame  Latournelle  herself,  who  has  been  really 
angelic  to  me.  I  was  perhaps  wrong;  however,  so  it  was. 
I  distilled  her  in  my  alembic,  and  I  at  last  discovered  hidden 
in  a  corner  of  her  soul  this  idea,  *  I  am  not  as  ugly  as  people 
think  ! '  And  in  spite  of  her  deep  piety,  by  working  on  that 
idea,  I  could  have  led  her  to  the  brink  of  the  abyss — to  leave 
her  there." 

"And  have  you  studied  Modeste?" 

"  I  thought  I  had  told  you,"  replied  the  hunchback,  "  that 
my  life  is  hers,  as  France  is  the  King's !  Now  do  you  under- 
stand my  playing  the  spy  in  Paris?  I  alone  know  all  the 
nobleness  and  pride,  the  unselfishness,  and  unexpected  sweet- 
ness that  lie  in  the  heart  and  soul  of  that  adorable  creature — 
the  indefatigable  kindness,  the  true  piety,  the  light-hearted- 
ness,  information,  refinement,  affability " 

Butscha  drew  out  his  handkerchief  to  stop  two  tears  from 
falling,  and  la  Briere  held  his  hand  for  some  time. 

"  I  shall  live  in  her  radiance  !  It  comes  from  her,  and  it 
ends  in  me,  that  is  how  we  are  united,  somewhat  as  nature  is 
to  God  by  light  and  the  word.  Good-night,  monsieur,  I 
13 


194  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

never  chattered  so  much  in  my  life ;  but  seeing  you  below  her 
windows,  I  guessed  that  you  loved  her  in  my  way." 

Butscha,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  left  the  unhappy 
lover,  on  whose  heart  this  conversation  had  shed  a  mysterious 
balm.  Ernest  determined  to  make  Butscha  his  friend,  never 
suspecting  that  the  clerk's  loquacity  was  chiefly  intended  to 
open  communication  with  Canalis'  house.  In  what  a  flow 
and  ebb  of  thoughts,  resolutions,  and  schemes  was  Ernest 
lapped  before  falling  asleep ;  and  his  friend  Canalis  was  sleep- 
ing the  sleep  of  the  triumphant,  the  sweetest  slumber  there  is 
next  to  that  of  the  just. 

At  breakfast  the  friends  agreed  to  go  together  to  spend  the 
evening  of  the  following  day  at  the  chalet,  and  be  initiated 
into  the  mild  joys  of  provincial  whist.  To  get  rid  of  this 
day  they  ordered  out  the  horses,  both  guaranteed  to  ride  and 
drive,  and  ventured  forth  into  a  country  certainly  as  unknown 
to  them  as  China ;  for  the  least  known  thing  in  France  to  a 
Frenchman,  is  France. 

As  he  reflected  on  his  position  as  a  lover  rejected  and 
scorned,  the  secretary  made  such  a  study  of  himself  as  he  had 
been  led  to  make  by  the  question  Modeste  had  put  to  him  at 
the  beginning  of  their  correspondence.  Though  misfortune  is 
supposed  to  develop  virtues,  it  only  does  so  in  virtuous  people ; 
for  this  sort  of  cleaning  up  of  the  conscience  takes  place  only 
in  naturally  cleanly  persons.  La  Briere  determined  to  swallow 
his  griefs  with  Spartan  philosophy,  to  preserve  his  dignity, 
and  never  allow  himself  to  be  betrayed  into  a  mean  action  ; 
while  Canalis,  fascinated  by  such  an  enormous  fortune,  vowed 
to  himself  that  he  would  neglect  nothing  that  might  captivate 
Modeste.  Egoism  and  unselfishness,  the  watchwords  of  these 
two  natures,  brought  them  by  a  moral  law,  which  sometimes 
has  whimsical  results,  to  behave  in  opposition  to  their  char- 
acters. The  selfish  man  meant  to  act  self-sacrifice,  the  man 
who  was  all  kindliness  would  take  refuge  on  the  Aventine 
Hill  of  pride.  This  phenomenon  may  also  be  seen  in  poli- 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  195 

tics.  Men  often  turn  their  natures  inside  out,  and  not  unfre- 
quently  the  public  does  not  know  the  right  side  from  the 
wrong. 

After  dinner  they  heard  from  Germain  that  the  master  of 
the  horse  had  arrived ;  he  was  introduced  at  the  chalet  that 
evening  by  Monsieur  Latournelle.  Mademoiselle  d'Herou- 
ville  managed  to  offend  the  worthy  lawyer  at  once,  by  send- 
ing a  message  through  a  footman,  desiring  him  to  call  at  her 
house,  instead  of  simply  sending  her  nephew  to  take  up  the 
lawyer,  who  would  certainly  have  talked  till  his  dying  day  of 
the  visit  paid  by  the  master  of  the  horse.  So  when  his  lord- 
ship offered  to  take  him  to  Ingouville  in  his  carriage  the  little 
notary  merely  said  that  he  must  return  home  to  accompany 
his  wife.  Seeing  by  his  sullen  manner  that  there  was  some- 
thing wrong,  the  Duke  graciously  replied,  "  If  you  will  allow 
me,  I  shall  have  the  honor  of  going  round  to  fetch  Madame 
Latournelle." 

In  spite  of  an  emphatic  shrug  of  his  despotic  aunt's  shoul- 
ders, the  Duke  set  out  with  the  little  notary.  Intoxicated 
with  the  delight  of  seeing  a  magnificent  carriage  at  her  door, 
and  men  in  the  royal  livery  to  let  down  the  steps,  the  lawyer's 
wife  did  not  know  which  way  to  turn  for  her  gloves,  her  para- 
sol, her  bag,  and  her  dignity,  when  it  was  announced  to  her 
that  the  master  of  the  horse  had  come  to  fetch  her.  As 
soon  as  she  was  in  the  carriage,  while  pouring  out  civilities  to 
the  little  Duke,  she  suddenly  exclaimed  with  kindly  impulse— 

"Oh,  and  Butscha?" 

"  Bring  Butscha,  too,"  said  the  Duke,  smiling. 

As  the  harbor-men,  who  had  collected  around  the  dazzling 
vehicle,  saw  these  three  little  men  with  that  tall  meagre 
woman,  they  looked  at  each  other  and  laughed. 

"  If  you  stuck  them  together  end-to-end,  perhaps  you  might 
make  a  man  tall  enough  for  that  long  May-pole,"  said  a  sailor 
from  Bordeaux. 

"  Have  you  anything  else  to  take  with  you,  madame?  "  the 


196  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

Duke  asked  jestingly,  as  the  footman  stood  waiting  for  his 
orders. 

"  No,  monseigneur,"  replied  she,  turning  scarlet,  and  look- 
ing at  her  husband  as  much  as  to  say,  "  What  have  I  done 
wrong?" 

"  His  lordship,"  said  Butscha,  "  does  me  too  much  honor 
in  speaking  of  me  as  a  thing ;  a  poor  clerk  like  me  is  a  name- 
less object." 

Though  he  spoke  lightly,  the  Duke  colored  and  made  no 
reply.  Grand  folk  are  always  in  the  wrong  to  bandy  jests 
with  those  below  them.  Banter  is  a  game,  and  a  game  implies 
equality.  And,  indeed,  it  is  to  obviate  the  unpleasant  re- 
sults of  such  a  transient  familiarity  that,  when  the  game  is 
over,  the  players  have  a  right  to  not  recognize  each  other. 

The  Duke's  visit  to  le  Havre  was  ostensibly  for  the  settle- 
ment of  an  immense  undertaking,  namely,  the  reclaiming  of  a 
vast  tract  of  land,  left  dry  by  the  sea  between  two  streams, 
of  which  the  ownership  had  just  been  confirmed  to  the 
H6rouville  family  by  the  high  court  of  appeals.  The  pro- 
posed scheme  was  no  less  a  matter  than  the  adjustment  of 
sluice  gates  to  two  bridges,  to  drain  a  tract  of  mud-flats  ex- 
tending for  about  a  kilometre,  with  a  breadth  of  three  or  four 
hundred  acres,  to  embank  roads  and  dig  ditches.  When  the 
Due  d'Herouville  had  explained  the  nature  and  position  of  the 
land,  Charles  Mignon  observed  that  he  would  have  to  wait  until 
nature  had  enabled  the  soil  to  settle  by  the  consolidation  of 
its  still  shifting  natural  constituents. 

"  Time,  which  has  providentially  enriched  your  estate, 
Monsieur  le  Due,  must  be  left  to  complete  its  work,"  said  he, 
in  conclusion.  "  You  will  do  well  to  wait  another  fifty  years 
before  setting  to  work." 

"  Do  not  let  that  be  your  final  opinion,  Monsieur  le  Comte," 
said  the  Duke.  "  Come  to  H6rouville,  see,  and  judge  for 
yourself." 

Charles  Mignon  replied  that  some  capitalist  would  need  to 


MODESTE   M1GNON.  197 

look  into  the  matter  with  a  cool  head  ;  and  this  remark  had 
given  Monsieur  d'Herouville  an  excuse  for  calling  at  the 
chalet. 

Modeste  made  a  deep  impression  on  him  ;  he  begged  the 
favor  of  a  visit  from  her,  saying  that  his  aunt  and  sister  had 
heard  of  her,  and  would  be  happy  to  make  her  acquaintance. 
On  this,  Charles  Mignon  proposed  to  introduce  his  daughter 
to  the  two  ladies,  and  invited  them  to  dine  with  him  on  the 
day  when  he  should  be  re-established  in  his  former  home  ; 
this  the  Duke  accepted.  The  nobleman's  blue  ribbon,  his 
title,  and,  above  all,  his  rapturous  glances,  had  their  effect  on 
Modeste  ;  still,  she  was  admirably  calm  in  speech,  manner, 
and  dignity.  The  Duke  when  he  left  seemed  loath  to  depart, 
but  he  had  received  an  invitation  to  go  to  the  chalet  every 
evening,  on  the  pretext  that,  of  course,  no  courtier  of  Charles 
X.  could  possibly  endure  an  evening  without  a  game  of  whist. 

So,  on  the  following  evening,  Modeste  was  to  see  her  three 
admirers  all  on  the  stage  at  once. 

Say  what  she  will,  it  is  certainly  flattering  to  a  girl  to  see 
several  rivals  fluttering  around  her,  men  of  talent,  fame,  or 
high  birth,  all  trying  to  shine  and  please  her,  though  the 
logic  of  the  heart  will  lead  her  to  sacrifice  everything  to  per- 
sonal predilection.  Even  if  Modeste  should  lose  credit  by 
the  admission,  she  owned,  at  a  later  day,  that  the  feelings 
expressed  in  her  letters  had  paled  before  the  pleasure  of  see- 
ing three  men,  so  different,  vying  with  each  other— three  men, 
each  of  whom  would  have  done  honor  to  the  most  exacting 
family  pride.  At  the  same  time,  this  luxury  of  vanity  gave 
way  before  the  misanthropical  spirit  of  mischief  engendered 
by  the  bitter  affront  which  she  already  thought  of  merely  as 
a  disappointment.  So  when  her  father  said  to  her  with  a 
smile — 

"  Well,  Modeste,  would  you  like  to  be  a  duchess  ?  " 

"  111  fortune  has  made  me  philosophical,"  she  replied,  with 
a  mocking  curtsey. 


198  MODESTE   MIGNON. 

"You  are  content  to  be  baroness?  "  asked  Butscha  quietly. 

"  Or  viscountess  ?  "  replied  her  father. 

"  How  could  that  be  ?  "  said  Modeste  quickly. 

"  Why,  if  you  were  to  accept  Monsieur  de  la  Briere,  he 
would  certainly  have  influence  enough  with  the  King  to  get 
leave  to  take  my  title  and  bear  my  arms." 

"  Oh,  if  it  is  a  matter  of  borrowing  a  disguise,  he  will 
make  no  difficulties  !  "  replied  Modeste  bitterly. 

Butscha  did  not  understand  this  sarcasm,  of  which  only 
Monsieur  and  Madame  Mignon  and  Dumay  knew  the  meaning. 

"  As  soon  as  marriage  is  in  question,  every  man  assumes  a 
disguise,"  said  Madame  Latournelle,  "  and  women  set  them 
the  example.  Ever  since  I  can  remember  I  have  heard  it 
said,  '  Monsieur  this  or  mademoiselle  that  is  making  a  very 
good  match ' — so  the  other  party  must  be  making  a  bad  one, 
I  suppose  ?  ' ' 

"  Marriage,"  quoth  Butscha,  "  is  like  an  action  at  law  ;  one 
side  is  always  left  dissatisfied  ;  and  if  one  party  deceives  the 
other,  half  the  married  couples  one  sees  certainly  play  the 
farce  at  the  cost  of  the  other." 

"Whence  you  conclude,  Sire  Butscha?"  asked  Modeste. 

"  That  we  must  always  keep  our  eyes  sternly  open  to  the 
enemy's  movements,"  replied  the  clerk. 

"What  did  I  tell  you,  my  pet?"  said  Charles  Mignon, 
alluding  to  his  conversation  with  his  daughter  on  the  sea- 
shore. 

"Men,  to  get  married,"  interjected  Latournelle,  "play  as 
many  parts  as  mothers  make  their  daughters  play  in  order 
to  get  them  off  their  hands." 

"Then  you  think  stratagem  allowable?"  rejoined  Mod- 
este. 

"  On  both  sides,"  cried  Gobenheim.  "Then  the  game  is 
even." 

This  conversation  was  carried  on  in  a  fragmentary  manner 
between  the  deals,  and  mixed  up  with  the  opinions  each  one 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  199 

allowed  himself  to  express  about  Monsieur  d'Herouville,  who 
was  thought  quite  good-looking  by  the  little  notary,  by  little 
Dumay,  and  by  little  Butscha. 

"I  see,"  said  Madame  Mignon,  with  a  smile,  "that  Ma- 
dame Latournelle  and  my  husband  are  quite  monsters  here !  " 

"Happily  for  him  the  colonel  is  not  excessively  tall," 
replied  Butscha,  while  the  lawyer  was  dealing,  "for  a  tall 
man  who  is  also  intelligent  is  always  a  rare  exception." 

But  for  this  little  discussion  on  the  legitimate  use  of  matri- 
monial wiles,  the  account  of  the  evening  so  anxiously  expected 
by  Butscha  might  seem  lengthy;  but  wealth,  for  which  so 
much  secret  meanness  was  committed,  may  perhaps  lend  to 
the  minutiae  of  private  life  the  interest  which  is  always  aroused 
by  the  social  feeling  so  frankly  set  forth  by  Ernest  in  his  reply 
to  Modeste. 

In  the  course  of  the  next  morning  Desplein  arrived.  He 
stayed  only  so  long  as  was  needful  for  sending  to  le  Havre 
for  a  relay  of  post-horses,  which  were  at  once  put  in — about 
an  hour.  After  examining  Madame  Mignon,  he  said  she 
would  certainly  recover  her  sight,  and  fixed  the  date  for  the 
operation  a  month  later.  This  important  consultation  was 
held,  of  course,  in  the  presence  of  the  family  party  at  the 
chalet,  all  anxiously  eager  to  hear  the  decision  of  the  prince 
of  science.  The  illustrious  member  of  the  Academy  of 
Science  asked  the  blind  woman  ten  short  questions,  while 
examining  her  eyes  in  the  bright  light  by  the  window.  Mod- 
este, amazed  at  the  value  of  time  to  this  famous  man,  noticed 
that  his  traveling  chaise  was  full  of  books,  which  he  intended 
to  read  on  his  way  back  10  Paris,  for  he  had  come  away  on 
the  previous  evening,  spending  the  night  in  sleeping  and  trav- 
eling. 

The  swiftness  and  clearness  of  Desplein 's  decisions  on 
every  answer  of  Madame  Mignon's,  his  curt  speech,  his  man- 
ner, all  gave  Modeste,  for  the  first  time,  any  clear  idea  of  a 


200  MODESTE   MIGNON. 

man  of  genius.  She  felt  the  enormous  gulf  between  Canalis, 
a  man  of  second-rate  talents,  and  Desplein,  a  more  than  supe- 
rior mind. 

A  man  of  genius  has  in  the  consciousness  of  his  talent  and 
the  assurance  of  his  fame  a  domain,  as  it  were,  where  his 
legitimate  pride  can  move  and  breathe  freely  without  incom- 
moding other  people.  Then  the  incessant  conflict  with  men 
and  things  gives  him  no  time  to  indulge  the  coquettish  con- 
ceits in  which  the  heroes  of  fashion  indulge,  as  they  hastily 
reap  the  harvest  of  a  passing  season,  while  their  vanity  and 
self-love  are  exacting  and  irritable,  like  a  sort  of  custom- 
house ever  alert  to  seize  a  toll  on  everything  that  passes  within 
its  ken. 

Modeste  was  all  the  more  delighted  with  the  great  surgeon 
because  he  seemed  struck  by  her  extreme  beauty — he,  under 
whose  hands  so  many  women  had  passed,  and  who  for  years 
had  been  scrutinizing  them  with  the  lancet  and  microscope. 

"It  would  really  be  too  bad,"  said  he,  with  the  gallantry 
which  he  could  so  well  assume,  in  contrast  to  his  habitual 
abruptness,  "  that  a  mother  should  be  deprived  of  seeing  such 
a  lovely  daughter." 

Modeste  herself  waited  on  the  great  surgeon  at  the  simple 
luncheon  he  would  accept.  She,  with  her  father  and  Dumay, 
escorted  the  learned  man,  for  whom  so  many  sick  were  long- 
ing, as  far  as  the  chaise  which  waited  for  him  at  the  side  gate, 
and  there,  her  eyes  beaming  with  hope,  she  said  once  more  to 
Desplein — 

"  Then  dear  mamma  will  really  see  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  pretty  will-o'-the-wisp,  I  promise  you  she  shall,'* 
he  replied,  with  a  smile  ;  "  and  I  am  incapable  of  deceiving 
you,  for  I,  too,  have  a  daughter." 

The  horses  whirled  him  off  as  he  spoke  the  words,  which 
had  an  unexpected  touch  of  feeling.  Nothing  is  more  be- 
witching than  the  unforeseen  peculiar  to  very  clever  men. 

This  visit  was  the  event  of  the  day,  and  it  left  a  track  of 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  201 

light  in  Modeste's  soul.  The  enthusiastic  child  admired  with- 
out guile  this  man  whose  life  was  at  everybody's  command, 
and  in  whom  the  habit  of  contemplating  physical  suffering 
had  overcome  every  appearance  of  egoism. 

In  the  evening,  when  Gobenheim,  the  Latournelles,  Canalis, 
Ernest,  and  the  Due  d'Herouville  had  assembled,  they  con- 
gratulated the  Mignon  family  on  the  good  news  given  them 
by  Desplein.  Then,  of  course,  the  conversation,  led  by 
Modeste,  as  we  know  her  from  her  letters,  turned  on  this  man 
whose  genius,  unfortunately  for  his  glory,  could  only  be  ap- 
preciated by  the  most  learned  men  and  the  medical  faculty. 
And  Gobenheim  uttered  this  speech,  which  is  in  our  days  the 
sanctifying  anointing  of  genius  in  the  ears  of  economists  and 
bankers — 

"  He  makes  enormous  sums." 

"  He  is  said  to  be  very  greedy?  "  replied  Canalis. 

The  praise  lavished  on  Desplein  by  Modeste  annoyed  the 
poet.  Vanity  behaves  like  woman.  They  both  believe  that 
they  lose  something  by  praise  or  affection  bestowed  on 
another.  Voltaire  was  jealous  of  the  wit  of  a  man  whom 
Paris  admired  for  two  days,  just  as  a  duchess  takes  offense  at 
a  glance  bestowed  on  her  waiting-maid.  So  great  is  the 
avarice  of  these  two  feelings  that  they  feel  robbed  of  a  pit- 
tance bestowed  on  the  poor. 

"And  do  you  think,  monsieur,"  asked  Modeste,  with  a 
smile,  "  that  a  genius  should  be 'measured  by  the  ordinary 
standard  ?" 

"It  would  first  be  necessary,  perhaps,"  said  Canalis,  "to 
define  a  man  of  genius.  One  of  his  prime  characteristics  is 
inventiveness — the  invention  of  a  type,  of  a  system,  of  a 
power.  Napoleon  was  an  inventor,  apart  from  his  other 
characteristics  of  genius.  He  invented  his  method  of  war- 
fare. Walter  Scott  is  an  inventor,  Linnaeus  was  an  inventor, 
so  are  Geoffrey  Saint-Hilaire  and  Cuvier.  Such  men  are 
geniuses  above  all  else.  They  renew,  or  expand,  or  modify 


202  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

science  or  art.  But  Desplein  is  a  man  whose  immense  talent 
consists  in  applying  laws  that  were  previously  discovered  ;  in 
detecting,  by  natural  intuition,  the  final  tendency  of  every 
temperament,  and  the  hour  marked  out  by  nature  for  the 
performance  of  an  operation.  He  did  not,  like  Hippocrates, 
lay  the  foundations  of  the  science  itself.  He  has  not  discovered 
a  system,  like  Galen,  Broussais,  or  Rasori.  His  is  the  genius 
of  the  executant,  like  Moscheles  on  the  piano,  Paganini  on 
the  violin,  or  Farinelli  on  his  own  larynx — men  who  display 
immense  powers,  but  who  do  not  create  music.  Between 
Beethoven  and  Madame  Catalani  you  will  allow  that  to  him 
should  be  awarded  the  crown  of  genius  and  suffering ;  to  her 
a  vast  heap  of  five-franc  pieces.  We  can  pay  our  debt  to 
one,  while  the  world  must  for  ever  remain  in  debt  to  the 
other !  We  owe  more  and  more  to  Moliere  every  day,  and 
we  have  already  ever  paid  Baron." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  you  are  giving  too  large  a  share  to 
ideas,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  la  Briere,  in  a  sweet  and  gentle 
voice  that  was  in  startling  contrast  to  the  poet's  peremptory 
style,  for  his  flexible  voice  had  lost  its  insinuating  tone  and 
assumed  the  dominant  ring  of  rhetoric.  "  Genius  ought  to 
be  estimated  chiefly  for  its  utility.  Parmentier,  Jacquard, 
and  Papin,  to  whom  statues  will  one  day  be  erected,  were 
also  men  of  genius.  They  have  in  a  certain  direction  altered, 
or  will  alter,  the  face  of  nations.  From  this  point  of  view 
Desplein  will  always  appear  in  the  eyes  of  thinking  men 
accompanied  by  a  whole  generation  whose  tears  and  sufferings 
have  been  alleviated  by  his  mighty  hand." 

That  Ernest  should  have  expressed  this  opinion  was  enough 
to  prompt  Modeste  to  contest  it. 

"In  that  case,  monsieur,"  said  she,  "the  man  who  should 
find  means  to  reap  corn  without  spoiling  the  straw,  by  a  ma- 
chine that  should  do  the  work  of  ten  laborers,  would  be  a 
man  of  genius?  " 

"Oh  yes,  my  child,"  said  Madame  Mignon,  "  he  would  be 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  203 

blessed  by  the  poor,  whose  bread  would  then  be  cheaper;  and 
he  whom  the  poor  bless  is  blessed  by  God." 

"That  is  to  give  utility  the  preference  over  art,"  said  Mod- 
este,  with  a  toss  of  her  head. 

"But  for  utility,"  said  her  father,  "  on  what  would  art  be 
founded  ?  On  what  basis  would  it  rest,  on  what  would  the 
poet  live,  and  who  would  give  him  shelter,  who  would  pay 
him?" 

"  Oh,  my  dear  father,  that  is  quite  the  view  of  a  merchant 
captain,  a  Philistine,  a  counter-jumper.  That  Gobenheim  or 
Monsieur  de  la  Briere  should  hold  it  I  can  understand ;  they 
are  interested  in  the  solution  of  such  social  problems ;  but 
you,  whose  life  has  been  so  romantically  useless  to  your  age, 
since  your  blood  spilt  on  the  soil  of  Europe,  and  the  terrible 
sufferings  required  of  you  by  a  Colossus,  have  not  hindered 
France  from  losing  ten  departments  which  the  Republic  had 
conquered,  how  can  you  subscribe  to  a  view  so  excessively 
'out  of  date,'  as  the  romantics  have  it?  It  is  easy  to  see 
that  you  have  dropped  from  China." 

The  disrespect  of  Modeste's  speech  was  aggravated  by  the 
scornful  and  contemptuous-flippancy  of  the  tone  in  which  she 
intentionally  spoke,  and  which  astonished  Madame  Latour- 
nelle,  Madame  Mignon,  and  Dumay.  Madame  Latournelle, 
though  she  opened  her  eyes  wide  enough,  could  not  see  nor 
in  the  least  comprehend  what  Modeste  was  driving  at ;  Butscha, 
who  was  as  alert  as  a  spy,  looked  significantly  at  Monsieur 
Mignon  on  seeing  his  face  flush  with  deep  and  sudden  indig- 
nation. 

"A  little  more,  mademoiselle,  and  you  would  have  failed  in 
respect  to  your  father,"  said  the  colonel  with  a  smile,  enlight- 
ened by  Butscha's  glance.  "That  is  what  comes  of  spoiling 
a  child." 

"I  am  an  only  daughter  !  "  she  retorted  insolently. 

"Unique  !  "  said  the  notary,  with  emphasis. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Modeste  to  Latournelle,  "my  father  is 


204  MODESTE   MIGNON. 

very  willing  that  I  should  educate  him.  He  gave  me  life,  I 
give  him  wisdom — he  will  still  be  my  debtor." 

"  But  there  is  a  way  of  doing  it — and,  above  all,  a  time  for 
it,"  interposed  Madame  Mignon. 

"But  mademoiselle  is  very  right,"  said  Canalis,  rising,  and 
placing  himself  by  the  ornate  mantel  in  one  of  the  finest 
postures  of  his  collection  of  attitudes.  "  God  in  His  foresight 
has  given  man  food  and  clothing,  and  has  not  directly  en- 
dowed him  with  art  !  He  has  said  to  man,  '  To  eat,  you 
must  stoop  to  the  earth  ;  to  think,  you  must  uplift  yourself  to 
Me ! '  We  need  the  life  of  the  soul  as  much  as  the  life  of 
the  body.  Hence  there  are  two  forms  of  utility — obviously 
we  do  not  wear  books  on  our  feet.  From  the  utilitarian  point 
of  view,  a  canto  of  an  epic  is  not  to  compare  with  a  bowl  of 
cheap  soup  from  a  charity  kitchen.  The  finest  idea  in  the 
world  cannot  take  the  place  of  the  sail  of  a  ship.  An  auto- 
matic boiler,  no  doubt,  by  lifting  itself  two  inches,  supplies 
us  with  calico  thirty  sous  a  yard  cheaper ;  but  this  machine 
and  the  inventions  of  industry  do  not  breathe  the  life  of  the 
people,  and  will  never  tell  the  future  that  it  has  existed ; 
whereas  Egyptian  art,  Mexican  art-,  Greek  or  Roman  art,  with 
their  masterpieces,  stigmatized  as  useless,  have  borne  witness 
to  the  existence  of  these  nations  through  a  vast  space  of  time 
in  places  where  great  intermediate  nations  have  vanished 
without  leaving  even  a  name-card,  for  lack  of  men  of  genius  ! 
Works  of  genius  form  the  summum  of  a  civilization  and  pre- 
suppose a  great  use.  You,  no  doubt,  would  not  think  a  pair 
of  boots  better  in  itself  than  a  drama,  nor  prefer  a  windmill 
to  the  church  of  Saint-Ouen?  Well,  a  nation  is  moved  by 
the  same  spirit  as  an  individual,  and  man's  favorite  dream  is 
to  survive  himself  morally,  as  he  reproduces  himself  physically. 
What  survives  of  a  nation  is  the  work  of  its  men  of  genius. 

"At  this  moment  France  is  a  vigorous  proof  of  the  truth  of 
this  proposition.  She  is  assuredly  outdone  by  England  in 
industry,  commerce,  and  navigation  ;  nevertheless,  she  leads 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  205 

the  world,  I  believe,  by  her  artists,  her  gifted  men,  and  the 
taste  of  her  products.  There  is  not  an  artist,  not  a  man  of 
mark  anywhere,  who  does  not  come  to  Paris  to  win  his  patent 
of  mastery.  There  is  at  this  day  no  school  of  painting  but  in 
France  ;  and  we  shall  rule  by  the  book  more  surely  perhaps, 
and  for  longer,  than  by  the  sword. 

"  Under  Ernest's  system  the  flowers  of  luxury  would  be  sup- 
pressed— the  beauty  of  woman,  music,  painting,  and  poetry. 
Society  would  not,  indeed,  be  overthrown ;  but  who  would 
accept  life  on  such  terms  ?  All  that  is  useful  is  horrible  and 
ugly.  The  kitchen  is  indispensable  in  a  house,  but  you  take 
good  care  never  to  stay  in  it ;  you  live  in  a  drawing-room  orna- 
mented, as  this  is,  with  perfectly  superfluous  things.  Of  what 
use  are  those  beautiful  pictures  and  all  this  carved  woodwork  ? 
Nothing  is  beautiful  but  what  we  feel  to  be  useless.  We  have 
called  the  sixteenth  century  the  age  of  the  Renaissance  with 
admirable  accuracy  of  expression.  That  century  was  the  dawn 
of  a  new  world ;  men  will  still  talk  of  it  when  some  preceding 
ages  are  forgotten,  whose  sole  merit  will  be  that  they  have 
existed — like  the  millions  of  beings  that  are  of  no  account  in 
a  generation." 

"  '  Guentlte,  soit !  ma  gucnille  m'cst  chere  '  *  ('A  poor  thing, 
but  mine  own  '),"  said  the  Due  d'Herouville  playfully,  during 
the  silence  that  followed  this  pompous  declamation  of  prose. 

"But,"  said  Butscha,  taking  up  the  cudgels  against  Canalis, 
"  does  the  art  exist  which,  according  to  you,  is  the  sphere  in 
which  genius  should  disport  itself?  Is  it  not  rather  a  magnifi- 
cent fiction  which  social  man  is  madly  bent  on  believing? 
What  need  have  I  for  a  landscape  in  Normandy  hanging  in 
my  room  when  I  can  go  and  see  it  so  well  done  by  God  ?  We 
have  in  our  dreams  finer  poems  than  the  '  Iliad.'  For  a  very 
moderate  sum  I  can  find  at  Valognes,  at  Carentan,  as  in 
Provence,  at  Aries,  Venuses  quite  as  lovely  as  Titian's.  The 
*  Police  News '  publishes  romances,  different,  indeed,  from 
*  Lit.:  Be  it  rags !  my  rags  are  my  entertainment. 


206  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

Walter  Scott's,  but  with  terrible  endings  in  real  blood,  and 
not  in  ink.  Happiness  and  virtue  are  far  above  art  and 
genius !  " 

"  Bravo,  Butscha  !  "  cried  Madame  Latournelle. 

"  What  did  he  say  !  "  asked  Canalis  of  la  Briere,  ceasing  to 
watch  Modeste,  in  whose  eyes  and  attitude  he  read  the  de- 
lightful evidence  of  her  artless  admiration. 

The  scorn  with  which  he  had  been  treated,  and,  above  all, 
the  girl's  disrespectful  speech  to  her  father,  had  so  depressed 
the  unhappy  la  Briere  that  he  made  no  reply ;  his  gaze,  sadly 
fixed  on  Modeste,  betrayed  absorbed  meditation.  The  little 
clerk's  argument  was,  however,  repeated  with  some  wit  by  the 
Due  d'Herouville,  who  ended  by  saying  that  the  raptures  of 
Saint  Theresa  were  far  superior  to  the  inventions  of  Lord 
Byron. 

"  Oh,  Monsieur  le  Due,"  remarked  Modeste,  "that  is 
wholly  personal  poetry,  while  Lord  Byron's  or  Moliere's  is 
for  the  benefit  of  the  world " 

"Then  you  must  make  your  peace  with  the  Baron,"  inter- 
rupted her  father  quickly.  "  Now  you  are  insisting  that 
genius  is  to  be  useful,  as  much  so  as  cotton  ;  but  you  will, 
perhaps,  think  logic  as  stale  and  out  of  date  as  your  poor  old 
father." 

Butscha,  la  Briere,  and  Madame  Latournelle  exchanged 
half-laughing  glances,  which  spurred  Modeste  on  in  her  career 
of  provocation,  all  the  more  because  for  a  moment  she  was 
checked. 

"Nay,  mademoiselle,"  said  Canalis  with  a  smile,  "we 
have  not  fought  nor  even  contradicted  each  other.  Every 
work  of  art,  whether  in  literature,  music,  painting,  sculpture, 
or  architecture,  carries  with  it  a  positive  social  utility,  like 
that  of  any  other  form  of  commercial  produce.  Art  is  the 
truest  form  of  commerce  ;  it  takes  it  for  granted.  A  book 
in  these  days  helps  its  writer  to  pocket  about  ten  thousand 
francs,  and  its  production  involves  printing,  paper-making, 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  207 

type-founding,  and  the  bookseller's  trade ;  that  is  to  say,  the 
occupation  of  thousands  of  hands.  The  performance  of  a 
symphony  by  Beethoven  or  of  an  opera  by  Rossini  demands 
quite  as  many  hands,  machines,  and  forms  of  industry. 

"The  cost  of  a  building  is  a  still  more  tangible  answer  to 
the  objection.  It  may,  indeed,  be  said  that  works  of  genius 
rest  on  a  very  costly  basis,  and  are  necessarily  profitable  to 
the  workingman." 

Fairly  started  on  this  text,  Canalis  talked  on  for  some  min- 
utes with  a  lavish  use  of  imagery,  and  reveling  in  his  own 
words ;  but  it  befell  him,  as  often  happens  with  great  talkers, 
to  find  himself  at  the  end  of  his  harangue  just  where  he 
started,  and  agreeing  with  la  Briere,  though  he  failed  to  per- 
ceive it. 

"  I  discern  with  pleasure,  my  dear  Baron,"  said  the  little 
Duke  slily,  "  that  you  will  make  a  great  constitutional 
minister." 

"Oh,"  returned  Canalis,  with  an  ostentatious  flourish, 
"  what  do  we  prove  by  all  our  discussions  ?  The  eternal  truth 
of  this  axiom,  'Everything  is  true  and  everything  is  false.' 
Moral  truths,  like  living  beings,  may  be  placed  in  an  atmos- 
phere where  they  change  their  appearance  to  the  point  of 
being  unrecognizable?  " 

"  Society  lives  by  condemned  things,"  interposed  the  Due 
d'Herouville. 

"What  flippancy!"  said  Madame  Latournelle  in  a  low 
voice  to  her  husband. 

"  He  is  a  poet,"  said  Gobenheim,  who  overheard  her. 

Canalis,  who  had  soared  ten  leagues  above  his  audience, 
and  who  was,  perhaps,  right  in  his  final  philosophical  dictum, 
took  the  sort  of  chill  he  read  on  every  face  for  a  symptom  of 
ignorance  ;  but  he  saw  that  Modeste  understood  him,  and  was 
content ;  never  discerning  how  offensive  such  a  monologue  is 
to  country  folk,  whose  one  idea  is  to  prove  to  Parisians  the 
vitality,  intelligence,  and  good  judgment  of  the  provinces. 


208  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

"  Is  it  long  since  you  last  saw  the  Duchesse  de  Chaulieu?  " 
asked  the  Duke  of  Canalis,  to  change  the  subject. 

"  I  saw  her  six  days  ago,"  replied  Canalis. 

"And  is  she  well?" 

"Perfectly  well." 

"  Remember  me  to  her,  pray,  when  you  write." 

"  I  hear  she  is  charming,"  Modeste  remarked  to  the  Duke. 

"Monsieur  le  Baron,"  said  he,  "knows  more  about  that 
than  I  do." 

"  She  is  more  than  charming,"  said  Canalis,  accepting  the 
Duke's  perfidious  challenge.  "  But  I  am  partial,  mademoi- 
selle ;  she  has  been  my  friend  these  ten  years.  I  owe  to  her 
all  that  may  be  good  in  me ;  she  has  sheltered  me  from  the 
perils  of  the  world.  Beside,  the  Due  de  Chaulieu  started  me 
in  the  way  I  am  going.  But  for  their  influence  the  King  and 
Princesses  would  often  have  forgotten  a  poor  poet  as  I  am ; 
my  affection,  therefore,  is  always  full  of  gratitude." 

And  he  spoke  with  tears  in  his  voice. 

"  How  much  we  all  ought  to  love  the  woman  who  has  in- 
spired you  with  such  sublime  song  and  such  a  noble  senti- 
ment," said  Modeste  with  feeling.  "  Can  one  conceive  of  a 
poet  without  a  Muse  ?  " 

"He  would  have  no  heart,"  said  Canalis;  "he  would 
write  verse  as  dry  as  Voltaire's — who  never  loved  any  one  but 
Voltaire." 

"  When  I  was  in  Paris,"  said  Dumay,  "did  you  not  do  me 
the  honor  of  assuring  me  that  you  felt  none  of  the  feelings 
you  expressed  ?  ' ' 

"  A  straight  hit,  my  worthy  soldier,"  replied  the  poet  with 
a  smile ;  "  but  you  must  understand  that  at  the  same  time  it 
is  allowable  to  have  a  great  deal  of  heart  in  the  intellectual 
life  as  well  as  in  real  life.  A  man  may  express  very  fine  senti- 
ments without  feeling  them,  or  feel  them  without  being  able 
to  express  them.  La  Briere,  my  friend  there,  loves  to  distrac- 
tion," said  he  generously,  as  he  looked  at  Modeste.  "I,  who 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  209 

love  at  least  as  much  as  he  does,  believe — unless  I  am  under 
an  illusion— that  I  can  give  my  passion  a  literary  form  worthy 
of  its  depth.  Still,  I  will  not  answer  for  it,  mademoiselle," 
he  adroitly  added,  turning  to  Modeste  with  a  rather  over-elab- 
orate grace,  "  that  I  shall  not  be  bereft  of  my  wits  by  to- 


morrow- 


And  thus  the  poet  triumphed  over  every  obstacle,  burning 
in  honor  of  his  love  the  sticks  they  tried  to  trip  him  up  with, 
while  Modeste  was  dazzled  by  this  Parisian  brilliancy,  which 
was  unfamiliar  to  her,  and  which  lent  a  glitter  to  the  orator's 
rhetoric. 

"What  a  mountebank!"  said  Butscha  in  a  whisper  to 
Latournelle,  after  listening  to  a  magniloquent  tirade  on  the 
Catholic  religion,  and  the  happiness  of  having  a  pious  wife, 
poured  out  in  response  to  an  observation  from  Madame 
Mignon. 

Modeste  had  a  bandage  over  her  eyes;  the  effect  of  his 
delivery  and  the  attention  she  intentionally  devoted  to  Canalis 
prevented  her  perceiving  what  Butscha  saw  and  noted — the 
declamatory  tone,  the  lack  of  simplicity,  rant  taking  the  place 
of  feeling,  and  all  the  incoherence  which  prompted  the  clerk's 
rather  too  severe  epithet. 

While  Monsieur  Mignon,  Dumay,  Butscha,  and  Latournelle 
wondered  at  the  poet's  want  of  sequence,  overlooking,  indeed, 
the  inevitable  digressions  of  conversation,  which  in  France  is 
always  very  devious,  Modeste  was  admiring  the  poet's  versa- 
tility, saying  to  herself  as  she  led  him  to  follow  the  tortuous 
windings  of  her  fancy,  "He  loves  me  !  " 

Butscha,  like  all  the  other  spectators  of  this  performance, 
as  we  must  call  it,  was  struck  by  the  chief  fault  of  all  egoists, 
which  Canalis  shows  a  little  too  much,  like  all  men  who  are 
accustomed  to  speechify  in  drawing-rooms.  Whether  he 
knew  beforehand  what  the  other  speaker  meant  to  say,  or 
merely  did  not  listen,  or  had  the  power  of  listening  while 
thinking  of  something  else,  Melchior  wore  the  look  of  inat- 
14 


210  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

tention  which  is  as  disconcerting  to  another  man's  flow  of 
words  as  it  is  wounding  to  his  vanity. 

Not  to  attend  to  what  is  said  is  not  merely  a  lack  of  polite- 
ness ;  it  is  an  expression  of  contempt.  And  Canalis  carries 
this  habit  rather  too  far,  for  he  often  neglects  to  reply  to  a 
remark  that  requires  an  answer,  and  goes  off  to  the  subject 
he  is  absorbed  in  without  any  polite  transition.  Though  this 
form  of  impertinence  may  be  accepted  without  protest  from  a 
man  of  position,  it  nevertheless  creates  a  leaven  of  hatred 
and  vengeful  feeling  at  the  bottom  of  men's  hearts;  in  an 
equal,  it  may  even  break  up  a  friendship. 

When  by  any  chance  Melchior  compels  himself  to  listen, 
he  falls  into  another  failing — he  only  lends  himself,  he  does 
not  give  himself  up.  Nothing  in  social  intercourse  pays  better 
than  the  bestowal  of  attention.  "  Blessed  are  they  that  hear  !" 
is  not  only  a  precept  of  the  Gospel,  it  is  also  an  excellent 
speculation ;  act  on  it,  and  you  will  be  forgiven  everything, 
even  vices.  Canalis  took  much  upon  himself  in  the  intention 
of  charming  Modeste  ;  but  while  he  was  sacrificing  himself  to 
her,  he  was  himself  all  the  while  with  the  others. 

Modeste,  pitiless  for  the  ten  persons  she  was  martyrizing, 
begged  Canalis  to  read  them  some  piece  of  his  verse;  she 
wanted  to  hear  a  specimen  of  that  much-praised  elocution. 

Canalis  took  the  volume  offered  him  by  Modeste  and  cooed 
— for  that  is  the  correct  word — the  poem  that  is  supposed  to 
be  his  finest,  an  imitation  of  Moore's  "  Loves  of  the  Angels," 
entitled  "  Vitalis,"  which  was  received  with  some  yawns  by 
Mesdames  Latournelle  and  Dumay,  by  Gobenheim  and  the 
cashier. 

"If  you  play  whist  well,  monsieur,"  said  Gobenheim, 
offering  him  five  cards  spread  out  in  a  fan,  "  I  have  never  met 
with  so  accomplished  a  gentleman." 

The  remark  made  every  one  laugh,  for  it  was  the  expres- 
sion of  the  common  wish. 

"  I  play  it  well  enough  to  be  able  to  end  my  days  in  a 


MODESTE  MIGMON.  211 

country  town,"  replied  Canalis.  "There  has,  I  dare  say, 
been  more  of  literature  and  conversation  than  whist  players 
care  to  have,"  he  added  in  an  impertinent  tone,  flinging  the 
book  on  to  the  side-table. 

This  incident  shows  what  dangers  are  incurred  by  the  hero 
of  a  salon  when,  like  Canalis,  he  moves  outside  his  orbit;  he 
is  then  in  the  case  of  an  actor  who  is  a  favorite  with  one  par- 
ticular public,  but  whose  talent  is  wasted  when  he  quits  his 
own  stage  and  ventures  on  to  that  of  a  superior  theatre. 

The  Baron  and  the  Duke  were  partners ;  Gobenheim  played 
with  Latournelle.  Modeste  sat  down  at  the  great  poet's 
elbow,  to  the  despair  of  Ernest,  who  marked  on  the  capricious 
girl's  countenance  the  progress  of  Canalis'  fascination.  La 
Briere  had  not  known  the  power  of  seduction  possessed  by 
Melchior,  and  often  denied  by  nature  to  genuine  souls,  who 
are  generally  shy.  This  gift  demands  a  boldness  and  readiness 
of  spirit  which  might  be  called  the  acrobatic  agility  of  the 
mind ;  it  even  allows  of  a  little  part-playing ;  but  is  there 
not,  morally  speaking,  always  something  of  the  actor  in  a 
poet  ?  There  is,  indeed,  a  wide  difference  between  expressing 
feelings  we  do  not  experience  though  we  can  imagine  them  in 
all  their  variety,  and  pretending  to  have  them  when  they  seem 
necessary  to  success  on  the  stage  of  private  life ;  and  yet,  if 
the  hypocrisy  needful  to  a  man  of  the  world  has  cankered  the 
poet,  he  easily  transfuses  the  powers  of  his  talent  into  the 
expression  of  the  required  sentiment,  just  as  a  great  man  who 
has  buried  himself  in  solitude  at  last  finds  his  heart  overflow- 
ing into  his  brain. 

"  He  is  playing  for  millions,"  thought  la  Bri6re  in  anguish ; 
"  and  he  will  act  passion  so  well  that  Modeste  will  believe 
in  it!" 

And  instead  of  showing  himself  more  delightful  and  wittier 
than  his  rival,  la  Briere,  like  the  Due  d'Herouville,  sat  gloomy, 
uneasy,  and  on  the  watch  ;  but  while  the  courtier  was  studying 
the  heiress'  vagaries,  Ernest  was  a  prey  to  the  misery  of  black 


212  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

and  concentrated  jealousy,  and  had  not  yet  won  a  single 
glance  from  his  idol.  He  presently  went  into  the  garden  for 
a  few  minutes  with  Butscha. 

"  It  is  all  over,  she  is  crazy  about  him,"  said  he.  "I  am 
worse  than  disagreeable — and,  after  all,  she  is  right  !  Canal  is 
is  delightful,  he  is  witty  even  in  his  silence,  he  has  passion  in 
his  eyes,  poetry  in  his  harangues " 

"  Is  he  an  honest  man  ?  "  asked  Butscha. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  replied  la  Briere.  "  He  is  loyal,  chivalrous, 
and  under  Modeste's  influence  he  is  quite  capable  of  getting 
over  the  little  faults  he  has  acquired  under  Madame  de 
Chaulieu " 

"  You  are  a  good  fellow  !"  exclaimed  the  little  hunchback. 
"  But  is  he  capable  of  loving — will  he  love  her  ?  " 

"I  do  not  know,"  replied  Ernest.  "  Has  she  men- 
tioned me?  "  he  asked  after  a  short  silence. 

"Yes,"  said  Butscha,  and  he  repeated  what  Modeste  had 
said  about  borrowing  a  disguise. 

The  young  fellow  threw  himself  on  a  seat  and  hid  his  face 
in  his  hands.  He  could  not  restrain  his  tears,  and  would  not 
let  Butscha  see  them;  but  the  dwarf  was  the  man  to  guess 
them. 

"  What  is  wrong,  monsieur  ?  "  asked  he. 

"  She  is  right !  "  cried  la  Briere,  suddenly  sitting  up.  "  I 
am  a  wretch." 

He  told  the  story  of  the  trick  he  had  been  led  into  by 
Canalis,  explaining  to  Butscha  that  he  had  wished  to  unde- 
ceive Modeste  before  she  had  unmasked  ;  and  he  overflowed 
in  rather  childish  lamentations  over  the  perversity  of  his  fate. 
Butscha's  sympathy  recognized  this  as  love  in  its  most  vigor- 
ous and  youthful  artlessness,  in  its  genuine  and  deep  anxiety. 

"  But  why,"  said  he,  "  do  you  not  make  the  best  of  your- 
self to  Mademoiselle  Modeste,  instead  of  leaving  your  rival  to 
prance  alone? " 

"  Ah  !  you  evidently  never  felt  your  throat  tighten  as  soon 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  213 

as  you  tried  to  speak  to  her,"  said  la  Briere.  "  Do  you  not 
feel  a  sensation  at  the  roots  of  your  hair  and  all  over  your 
skin  when  she  looks  at  you,  even  without  seeing  you?  " 

"  Still  you  had  your  wits  about  you  sufficiently  to  be  deeply 
grieved  when  she  as  good  as  told  her  father  that  he  was  an  old 
woman." 

"  Monsieur,  I  love  her  too  truly  not  to  have  felt  it  like  a 
dagger-thrust  when  I  heard  her  thus  belie  the  perfection  I 
ascribed  to  her  !  " 

"  But  Canalis,  you  see,  justified  her,"  replied  Butscha. 

"  If  she  has  more  vanity  than  good  feeling,  she  would 
not  be  worth  regretting  !  "  said  Ernest. 

At  this  moment  Modeste  came  out  to  breathe  the  freshness 
of  the  starlit  night  with  Canalis  (who  had  been  losing  at 
cards),  her  father,  and  Madame  Dumay.  While  his  daughter 
walked  on  with  Melchior,  Charles  Mignon  left  her  and  came 
up  to  la  Briere. 

"  Your  friend  ought  to  have  been  an  advocate,  monsieur," 
said  he  with  a  smile,  and  looking  narrowly  at  the  young  man. 

"  Do  not  be  in  a  hurry  to  judge  a  poet  with  the  severity 
you  might  exercise  on  an  ordinary  man,  like  me,  for  instance, 
Monsieur  le  Comte,"  said  la  Briere.  "  The  poet  has  his  mis- 
sion. He  is  destined  by  nature  to  see  the  poetical  side  of 
every  question,  just  as  he  expresses  the  poetry  of  everything ; 
thus  when  you  fancy  that  he  is  arguing  against  himself,  he  is 
faithful  to  his  calling.  He  is  a  painter  ready  to  represent 
either  a  Madonna  or  a  courtesan.  Moliere  is  alike  right  in 
his  pictures  of  old  men  and  young  men,  and  Moliere  cer- 
tainly had  a  sound  judgment.  These  sports  of  fancy  which 
corrupt  second-rate  minds  have  no  influence  over  the  character 
of  really  great  men." 

Charles  Mignon  pressed  the  young  fellow's  hand,  saying, 
"  At  the  same  time,  this  versatility  might  be  used  by  a  man 
to  justify  himself  for  actions  diametrically  antagonistic,  espe- 
cially in  politics." 


214  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

At  this  moment  Canalis  was  saying  in  an  insinuating  voice, 
in  reply  to  some  saucy  remark  of  Modeste's  :  "  Ah,  made- 
moiselle, never  believe  that  the  multiplicity  of  emotions  can 
in  any  degree  diminish  strength  of  feeling.  Poets,  more 
than  other  men,  must  love  with  constancy  and  truth.  In  the 
first  place,  do  not  be  jealous  of  what  is  called  '  The  Muse. ' 
Happy  is  the  wife  of  a  busy  man  !  If  you  could  but  hear  the 
lamentations  of  the  wives  who  are  crushed  under  the  idleness 
of  husbands  without  employment,  or  to  whom  wealth  gives 
much  leisure,  you  would  know  that  the  chief  happiness  of  a 
Parisian  woman  is  liberty,  sovereignty  in  her  home.  And  we 
poets  allow  the  wife  to  hold  the  sceptre,  for  we  cannot  possi- 
bly condescend  to  the  tyranny  exerted  by  small  minds.  We 
have  something  better  to  do.  If  ever  I  should  marry,  which 
I  vow  is  a  very  remote  disaster  in  my  life,  I  should  wish  my 
wife  to  enjoy  the  perfect  moral  liberty  which  a  mistress  always 
preserves,  and  which  is  perhaps  the  source  of  all  her  seductive- 
ness." 

Canalis  put  forth  all  his  spirit  and  grace  in  talking  of  love, 
marriage,  the  worship  of  woman,  and  arguing  with  Modeste, 
but  presently  Monsieur  Mignon,  who  came  to  join  them,  seized 
a  moment's  silence  to  take  his  daughter  by  the  arm  and  lead 
her  back  to  Ernest,  whom  the  worthy  colonel  had  advised  to 
attempt  some  explanation. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  Ernest  in  a  broken  voice,  "I  cannot 
possibly  endure  to  remain  here  the  object  of  your  scorn.  I 
do  not  defend  myself,  I  make  no  attempt  at  justification  ;  I 
only  beg  to  point  out  to  you  that  before  receiving  your  flatter- 
ing letter  addressed  to  the  man  and  not  to  the  poet — your  last 
letter — I  desired,  and  by  a  letter  written  at  le  Havre  I  intended, 
to  dispel  the  mistake  under  which  you  wrote.  All  the  feelings 
I  have  had  the  honor  of  expressing  to  you  are  sincere.  A 
hope  beamed  on  me  when,  in  Paris,  your  father  told  me  that 
he  was  poor ;  but  now,  if  all  is  lost,  if  nothing  is  left  to  me 
but  eternal  regrets,  why  should  I  stay  where  there  is  nothing 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  215 

for  me  but  torture?  Let  me  only  take  away  with  me  one 
smile  from  you.  It  will  remain  graven  on  my  heart." 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Modeste,  who  appeared  cold  and  absent- 
minded,  "I  am  not  the  mistress  here  ;  but  I  certainly  should 
deeply  regret  keeping  any  one  here  who  should  find  neither 
pleasure  nor  happiness  in  staying." 

She  turned  away,  and  took  Madame  Dumay's  arm  to  go 
back  into  the  house.  A  few  minutes  later  all  the  personages 
of  this  domestic  drama,  once  more  united  in  the  drawing- 
room,  were  surprised  to  see  Modeste  sitting  by  the  Due  d'He- 
rouville,  and  flirting  with  him  in  the  best  style  of  the  most 
wily  Parisienne.  She  watched  his  play,  gave  him  advice  when 
he  asked  it,  and  took  opportunities  of  saying  flattering  things 
to  him,  placing  the  chance  advantage  of  noble  birth  on  the 
same  level  as  that  of  talent  or  of  beauty. 

Canalis  knew,  or  fancied  he  knew,  the  reason  for  this  caprice; 
he  had  tried  to  pique  Modeste  by  speaking  of  marriage  as  a 
disaster  and  seeming  to  be  averse  to  it ;  but,  like  all  who  play 
with  fire,  it  was  he  who  was  burnt.  Modeste's  pride  and  dis- 
dain alarmed  the  poet ;  he  came  up  to  her,  making  a  display 
of  jealousy  all  the  more  marked  because  it  was  assumed. 
Modeste,  as  implacable  as  the  angels,  relished  the  pleasure  she 
felt  in  the  exercise  of  her  power,  and  naturally  carried  it  too 
far.  The  Due  d'Herouville  had  never  been  so  well  treated: 
a  woman  smiled  on  him  ! 

At  eleven  o'clock,  an  unheard-of  hour  at  the  chalet,  the 
three  rivals  left,  the  Duke  thinking  Modeste  charming,  Canalis 
regarding  her  as  a  coquette,  and  la  Briere  heart-broken  by  her 
relentlessness. 

For  a  week  the  heiress  still  remained  to  her  three  admirers 
just  what  she  had  been  on  that  evening,  so  that  the  poet 
seemed  to  have  triumphed  in  spite  of  the  whims  and  freaks 
which  from  time  to  time  inspired  some  hopes  in  the  Due 
d'H^rouvjlle.  Modeste's  irreverence  to  her  father  and  the 


216  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

liberties  she  took  with  him  ;  her  irritability  toward  her  blind 
mother,  as  she  half-grudgingly  did  her  the  little  services  which 
formerly  had  been  the  delight  of  her  filial  affection,  seemed 
to  be  the  outcome  of  a  wayward,  temper  and  liveliness  tolerated 
in  her  childhood.  When  Modeste  went  too  far  she  would 
assert  a  code  of  her  own,  and  ascribe  her  levity  and  fractious- 
ness  to  her  spirit  of  independence.  She  owned  to  Canalis  and 
the  Duke  that  she  hated  obedience,  and  regarded  this  as  an 
obstacle  in  the  way  of  marriage,  thus  sounding  her  suitors' 
character  after  the  manner  of  those  who  pierce  the  soil  to 
bring  up  gold,  coal,  stone,  or  water. 

"I  shall  never  find  a  husband,"  she  said,  the  day  before 
that  on  which  the  family  were  to  reinstate  themselves  in  the 
villa,  "  who  will  endure  my  caprices  with  such  kindness  as  my 
father's,  which  has  never  failed  for  an  instant,  or  the  indul- 
gence of  my  adorable  mother." 

"They  know  that  you  love  them,  mademoiselle,"  said  la 
Briere. 

"Be  assured,  mademoiselle,  that  your  husband  will  know 
the  full  value  of  his  treasure,"  added  the  Duke. 

"You  have  more  wit  and  spirit  than  are  needed  to  break  in 
a  husband,"  said  Canalis,  laughing. 

Modeste  smiled,  as  Henri  IV.  may  have  smiled  when,  by 
extracting  three  answers  to  an  insidious  question,  he  had  re- 
vealed to  some  foreign  ambassador  the  character  of  his  three 
leading  ministers. 

On  the  day  of  the  dinner,  Modeste,  led  away  by  her  prefer- 
ence for  Canalis,  walked  alone  with  him  for  some  time  up  and 
down  the  graveled  walk  leading  from  the  house  to  the  lawn 
with  its  flower-beds.  It  was  easy  to  perceive,  from  the  poet's 
gestures  and  the  young  heiress'  demeanor,  that  she  was  lend- 
ing a  favorable  ear  to  Canalis,  and  the  two  Demoiselles 
d'Herouville  came  out  to  interrupt  a  tete-a-tete  that  scandal- 
ized them.  With  the  tact  natural  to  women  in  such  cases, 
they  turned  the  conversation  to  the  subject  of  the  court,  of  the 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  217 

high  position  conferred  by  an  office  under  the  crown,  explain- 
ing the  difference  subsisting  between  an  appointment  to  the 
household  and  one  held  under  the  crown  ;  they  tried,  in  fact, 
to  intoxicate  Modeste  by  appealing  to  her  pride,  and  display, 
ing  to  her  one  of  the  highest  positions  which  a  woman  at  that 
time  could  hope  to  attain. 

"  To  have  a  duke  in  your  son,"  cried  the  old  lady,  "is  a 
positive  distinction.  The  mere  title  is  a  fortune,  out  of  reach 
of  reverses,  to  bequeath  to  your  children." 

"To  what  ill-fortune,"  said  Canalis,  very  ill  pleased  at  this 
interruption  to  his  conversation,  "  must  we  attribute  the  small 
success  that  the  master  of  the  horse  has  hitherto  achieved  in 
the  matter  in  which  that  title  is  supposed  to  be  of  most  service 
as  supporting  a  man's  pretensions?" 

The  two  unmarried  ladies  shot  a  look  at  Canalis  as  full  of 
venom  as  a  viper's  fangs,  but  were  so  put  out  of  countenance 
by  Modeste's  sarcastic  smile  that  they  had  not  a  word  in  reply. 

"The  master  of  the  horse,"  said  Modeste  to  Canalis,  "has 
never  blamed  you  for  the  diffidence  you  have  learned  from  your 
fame;  why  then  grudge  him  his  modesty?  " 

"Also,"  said  the  Duke's  aunt,  "we  have  not  yet  met  with 
a  wife  worthy  of  my  nephew's  rank.  Some  we  have  seen  who 
had  merely  the  fortune  that  might  suit  the  position ;  others 
who,  without  the  fortune,  had  indeed  the  right  spirit ;  and  I 
must  confess  that  we  have  done  well  to  wait  till  God  should 
give  us  the  opportunity  of  making  acquaintance  with  a  young 
lady  in  whom  should  be  united  both  the  noble  soul  and  the 
handsome  fortune  of  a  Duchesse  d'Herouville  !  " 

"My  dear  Modeste,"  said  Helene  d'Herouville,  walking 
away  a  few  steps  with  her  new  friend,  "  there  are  a  thousand 
Barons  de  Canalis  in  the  kingdom,  and  a  hundred  poets  in 
Paris  who  are  as  good  as  he ;  and  he  is  so  far  from  being  a 
great  man,  that  I,  a  poor  girl,  fated  to  take  the  veil  for  lack 
of  a  dower,  would  have  nothing  to  say  to  him  !  And  you  do 
not  know,  I  dare  say,  that  he  is  a  man  who  has,  for  the  last 


218  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

ten  years,  been  at  the  beck  and  call  of  the  Duchesse  de  Chau- 
lieu.  Really,  none  but  an  old  woman  of  sixty  could  put  up 
with  the  endless  little  ailments  with  which,  it  is  said,  the  poet 
is  afflicted,  the  least  of  which  was  unendurable  in  Louis  XVI. 
Still,  the  Duchess,  of  course,  does  not  suffer  from  them  as  his 
wife  would ;  he  is  not  so  constantly  with  her  as  a  husband 
would  be " 

And  so  by  one  of  the  manoeuvres  peculiar  to  woman  against 
woman,  Helene  d'Herouville  whispered  in  every  ear  the 
calumnies  which  women,  jealous  of  Madame  de  Chaulieu, 
propagated  concerning  the  poet.  This  trivial  detail,  not  rare 
in  the  gossip  of  young  girls,  shows  that  the  Comte  de  la 
Bastie's  fortune  was  already  made  the  object  of  ardent  rivalry. 

Within  ten  days,  opinions  at  the  chalet  had  varied  consid- 
erably about  the  three  men  who  aspired  to  Modeste's  hand. 
This  change,  wholly  to  the  disadvantage  of  Canalis,  was 
founded  on  considerations  calculated  to  make  the  hero  of  any 
form  of  fame  reflect  deeply.  When  we  see  the  passion  with 
which  an  autograph  is  craved,  it  is  impossible  to  doubt  that 
public  curiosity  is  strongly  excited  by  celebrity.  Most  pro- 
vincials, it  is  evident,  have  no  very  exact  idea  of  the  manner 
in  which  illustrious  persons  fasten  their  cravat,  walk  on  the 
boulevard,  gape  at  the  crows,  or  eat  a  cutlet ;  for,  as  soon  as 
they  see  a  man  wearing  the  halo  of  fashion,  or  resplendent 
with  popularity — more  or  less  transient,  no  doubt,  but  always 
the  object  of  envy — they  are  ready  to  exclaim,  "  Ah !  so 
that  is  the  thing  !  "  or,  "  Well,  that  is  odd  !  "  or  something 
equally  absurd.  In  a  word,  the  strange  charm  that  is  pro- 
duced by  every  form  of  renown,  even  when  justly  acquired, 
has  no  permanence.  To  superficial  minds,  especially  to  the 
sarcastic  and  the  envious,  it  is  an  impression  as  swift  as  a 
lightning-flash,  and  never  repeated.  Glory,  it  would  seem, 
like  the  sun,  is  hot  and  luminous  from  afar,  but,  when  we  get 
near,  it  is  as  cold  as  the  peak  of  an  Alp.  Perhaps  a  man  is  really 
great  only  to  his  peers ;  perhaps  the  defects  inherent  in  the 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  219 

conditions  of  humanity  are  more  readily  lost  to  their  eyes 
than  to  those  of  vulgar  admirers.  Thus,  to  be  constantly 
pleasing,  a  poet  would  be  compelled  to  display  the  deceptive 
graces  of  those  persons  who  can  win  forgiveness  for  their  ob- 
scurity by  amiable  manners  and  agreeable  speeches,  since, 
beside  genius,  the  vapid  drawing-room  virtues  and  harmless 
domestic  twaddle  are  exacted  from  him. 

The  great  poet  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain,  who  re- 
fused to  yield  to  this  law  of  society,  found  that  insulting 
indifference  soon  took  the  place  of  the  fascination  at  first 
caused  by  his  conversation  at  evening  parties.  Cleverness  too 
prodigally  displayed  produces  the  same  effect  on  the  mind  as 
a  shop  full  of  cut-glass  has  on  the  eyes ;  this  sufficiently  ex- 
plains that  Canalis'  glitter  soon  wearied  those  people  who,  to 
use  their  own  words,  like  something  solid.  Then,  under  the 
necessity  of  appearing  an  ordinary  man,  the  poet  found  many 
rocks  ahead  where  la  Briere  could  win  the  good  opinion  of 
those  who,  at  first,  had  thought  him  sullen.  They  felt  the  de- 
sire to  be  revenged  on  Canalis  for  his  reputation  by  making 
more  of  his  friend.  The  most  kindly  people  are  so  made. 
The  amiable  and  unpretentious  referendary  shocked  nobody's 
vanity ;  falling  back  on  him,  every  one  discerned  his  good 
heart,  his  great  modesty,  the  discretion  of  a  strong  box,  and 
delightful  manners.  On  political  questions  the  Due  d'He- 
rouville  held  Ernest  far  above  Canalis.  The  poet,  as  erratic, 
ambitious,  and  mutable  as  Tasso,  loved  luxury  and  splendor, 
and  ran  into  debt ;  while  the  young  lawyer,  even-minded, 
living  prudently,  and  useful  without  officiousness,  hoped  for 
promotion  without  asking  it,  and  was  saving  money  mean- 
while. 

Canalis  had  indeed  justified  the  good  people  who  were 
watching  him.  For  the  last  two  or  three  days  he  had  given 
way  to  fits  of  irritability,  of  depression,  of  melancholy,  with- 
out any  apparent  cause — the  caprices  of  temper  that  come  of 
the  nervous  poetical  temperament,  These  eccentricities— as 


220  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

they  are  called  in  a  country  town — had  their  cause  in  the 
wrong,  which  each  day  made  worse,  that  he  was  doing  to  the 
Duchesse  de  Chaulieu,  to  whom  he  knew  he  ought  to  write, 
without  being  able  to  make  up  his  mind  to  do  it ;  they  were 
anxiously  noted  by  the  gentle  American  and  worthy  Madame 
Latournelle,  and  more  than  once  came  under  discussion  be- 
tween them  and  Madame  Mignon.  Canalis,  knowing  nothing 
of  these  discussions,  felt  their  effect.  He  was  no  longer 
listened  to  with  the  same  attention,  the  faces  round  him  did 
not  express  the  rapture  of  the  first  days,  while  Ernest  was 
beginning  to  be  listened  to.  For  the  last  few  days  the  poet 
had,  therefore,  been  bent  on  captivating  Modeste,  and  seized 
every  moment  when  he  could  be  alone  with  her  to  cast  over 
her  the  tangles  of  the  most  impassioned  language.  Modeste' s 
heightened  color  plainly  showed  the  two  Demoiselles  d'He- 
rouville  with  what  pleasure  the  heiress  heard  insinuating 
conceits  charmingly  spoken ;  and,  uneasy  at  the  poet's  rapid 
advances,  they  had  recourse  to  the  ultima  ratio  of  women  in 
such  predicaments — to  calumny,  which  rarely  misses  its  aim 
when  it  appeals  to  vehement  physical  repulsion. 

As  he  sat  down  to  dinner  the  poet  saw  a  cloud  on  his  idol's 
brow,  and  read  in  it  Mademoiselle  d'Herouville's  perfidy;  so 
he  decided  that  he  must  offer  himself  as  a  husband  to  Mod- 
este at  the  first  opportunity  he  should  have  of  speaking  to 
her.  As  he  and  the  two  noble  damsels  exchanged  some  sub- 
acid,  though  polite  remarks,  Gobenheim  nudged  Butscha, 
who  sat  next  to  him,  to  look  at  the  poet  and  the  master  of 
the  horse. 

"  They  will  demolish  each  other,"  said  he  in  a  whisper. 

"  Canalis  has  genius  enough  to  demolish  himself  unaided," 
said  the  dwarf. 

In  the  course  of  the  dinner,  which  was  extremely  splendid 
and  served  to  perfection,  the  Duke  achieved  a  great  triumph 
over  Canalis.  Modeste,  whose  riding-habit  had  arrived  the 
evening  before,  talked  of  the  various  rides  to  be  taken  in  the 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  221 

neighborhood.  In  the  course  of  the  conversation  that  ensued 
she  was  led  to  express  a  strong  wish  to  see  a  hunt — a  pleasure 
she  had  never  known.  The  Duke  at  once  proposed  to  ar- 
range a  hunt  for  Mademoiselle  Mignon's  benefit  in  one  of  the 
crown  forest-lands  a  few  leagues  from  le  Havre.  Thanks  to 
his  connection  with  the  master  of  the  King's  hounds,  the 
Prince  de  Cadignan,  he  had  it  in  his  power  to  show  Modeste 
a  scene  of  royal  magnificence,  to  charm  her  by  showing  her 
the  dazzling  world  of  a  court,  and  making  her  wish  to  enter 
it  by  marriage.  The  glances  exchanged  by  the  Duke  and 
the  two  Demoiselles  d'Herouville,  which  Canalis  happened  to 
catch,  distinctly  said,  "  The  heiress  is  ours  !  "  enough  to  urge 
the  poet,  who  was  reduced  to  mere  personal  glitter,  to  secure 
some  pledge  of  her  affection  without  loss  of  time. 

Modeste,  somewhat  scared  at  having  gone  further  than  she 
intended  with  the  d'Herouvilles,  after  dinner,  when  they 
were  walking  in  the  grounds,  went  forward  a  little  distance  in 
a  rather  marked  manner,  accompanied  by  Melchior.  With  a 
young  girl's  not  illegitimate  curiosity,  she  allowed  him  to 
guess  the  calumnies  repeated  by  Helene,  and,  on  a  remon- 
strance from  Canalis,  she  pledged  him  to  secrecy,  which  he 
promised. 

"  These  lashes  of  the  tongue,"  said  he,  "  are  fair  war  in 
the  world  of  fashion  ;  your  simplicity  is  scared  by  them  ;  for 
my  part,  I  can  laugh  at  them — nay,  I  enjoy  them.  Those 
ladies  must  think  his  lordship's  interests  seriously  imperiled, 
or  they  would  not  have  recourse  to  them." 

Then,  profiting  by  the  opportunity  given  by  such  a  piece 
of  information,  Canalis  justified  himself  with  so  much  mock- 
ing wit  and  passion  so  ingeniously  expressed,  while  thanking 
Modeste  for  her  confidence,  in  which  he  insisted  in  seeing  a 
slight  strain  of  love,  that  she  found  herself  quite  as  deeply 
compromised  toward  the  poet  as  she  was  toward  the  Duke. 
Canalis  felt  that  daring  was  necessary ;  he  declared  himself 
in  plain  terms.  He  paid  his  vows  to  Modeste  in  a  style 


222  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

through  which  his  poetic  fancy  shone  like  a  moon  ingeniously 
staged,  with  a  brilliant  picture  of  herself — beautifully  fair, 
and  arrayed  to  admiration  for  this  family  festival.  The  in- 
spiration so  cleverly  called  up,  and  encouraged  by  the  com- 
plicity of  the  evening,  the  grove,  the  sky,  and  the  earth,  led 
the  grasping  lover  beyond  all  reason  ;  for  he  even  talked  of 
his  disinterestedness,  and  succeeded  by  the  flowers  of  his  elo- 
quence in  giving  a  new  aspect  to  Diderot's  stale  theme  of 
"  Five  hundred  francs  and  my  Sophie,"  or  the  "  Give  me  a 
cottage  and  your  heart  !  "  of  every  lover  who  knows  that  his 
father-in-law  has  a  fortune. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Modeste,  after  enjoying  the  music  of 
this  concerto  so  admirably  composed  on  "a  familiar  theme," 
"my  parents  leave  me  such  freedom  as  has  allowed  me  to 
hear  you  ;  but  you  must  address  yourself  to  them." 

"Well,  then,"  cried  Canalis,  "only  tell  me  that  if  I  get 
their  consent  you  will  be  quite  satisfied  to  obey  them." 

"  I  know  beforehand,"  said  she,  "  that  my  father  has  some 
wishes  which  might  offend  the  legitimate  pride  of  a  family  as 
old  as  yours,  for  he  is  bent  on  transmitting  his  title  and  his 
name  to  his  grandsons." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Modeste,  what  sacrifice  would  I  not  make 
to  place  my  life  in  the  hands  of  such  a  guardian  angel  as  you 
are!" 

"  You  must  allow  me  not  to  decide  my  fate  for  life  in 
one  moment,"  said  she,  going  to  join  the  Demoiselles 
d'Herouville. 

These  two  ladies  were  at  that  minute  flattering  little  Latour- 
nelle's  vanity  in  the  hope  of  securing  him  to  their  interests. 
Mademoiselle  d'Herouville,  to  whom  we  must  give  the  family 
name  to  distinguish  her  from  her  niece  Helene,  was  convey- 
ing to  the  notary  that  the  place  of  president  of  the  court  at  le 
Havre,  which  Charles  X.  would  give  to  a  man  recommended 
by  them,  was  an  appointment  due  to  his  honesty  and  talents 
as  a  lawyer.  Butscha,  who  was  walking  with  la  Briere,  in 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  223 

great  alarm  at  Melchior's  audacity  and  rapid  progress,  found 
means  to  speak  to  Modeste  for  a  few  minutes  at  the  bottom 
of  the  garden  steps  as  the  party  went  indoors  to  give  them- 
selves up  to  the  vexations  of  the  inevitable  rubber. 

"  Mademoiselle,  I  hope  you  do  not  yet  address  him  as 
Melchior,"  said  he  in  an  undertone. 

"Not  far  short  of  it,  my  mysterious  dwarf,"  she  replied, 
with  a  smile  that  might  have  seduced  an  angel. 

"  Good  God  !  "  cried  the  clerk,  dropping  his  hands,  which 
almost  touched  the  steps. 

"  Well,  and  is  he  not  as  good  as  that  odious  gloomy  refer- 
endary in  whom  you  take  so  much  interest?  "  cried  she,  put- 
ting on  for  Ernest  a  haughty  look  of  scorn,  such  as  young 
girls  alone  have  the  secret  of,  as  though  their  maidenhood 
lent  them  wings  to  soar  so  high.  "  Would  your  little  Mon- 
sieur de  la  Briere  take  me  without  a  settlement  ?  "  she  added 
after  a  pause. 

"Ask  your  father,"  replied  Butscha,  going  a  few  steps  on, 
so  as  to  lead  Modeste  to  a  little  distance  from  the  windows. 
"  Listen  to  me,  mademoiselle.  You  know  that  I  who  speak 
to  you  am  ready  to  lay  down  not  my  life  only,  but  my  honor 
for  you,  at  any  time,  at  any  moment.  So  you  can  believe  in 
me,  you  can  trust  me  with  things  you  would  not  perhaps  tell 
your  father.  Well,  has  that  sublime  Canalis  ever  spoken  to 
you  in  the  disinterested  way  that  allows  you  to  cast  such  a 
taunt  at  poor  Ernest?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  you  believe  him  ?  " 

"  That,  malignant  clerk,"  said  she,  giving  him  one  of  the 
ten  or  twelve  nicknames  she  had  devised  for  him,  "  is,  as  it 
seems  to  me,  casting  a  doubt  on  the  strength  of  my  self- 
respect." 

"  You  can  laugh,  dear  mademoiselle,  so  it  cannot  be  serious. 
I  can  only  hope  that  you  are  making  a  fool  of  him." 

"  What  would  you  think  of  me,  Monsieur  Butscha,  if  I 


224  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

thought  I  had  any  right  to  mock  at  either  of  the  gentlemen 
who  do  me  the  honor  to  wish  for  me  as  a  wife  ?  I  can  tell 
you,  Master  John,  that  even  when  she  appears  to  scorn  the 
most  contemptible  admiration,  a  girl  is  always  flattered  at 
having  it  offered  to  her." 

"  Then  I  flatter  you ?  "  said  the  clerk,  his  face  lighting 

up  as  a  town  is  illuminated  on  some  great  occasion. 

"  You ?  "  said  she.  "  You  give  me  the  most  precious 

kind  of  friendship,  a  feeling  as  disinterested  as  that  of  a  mother 
for  her  child  !  Do  not  compare  yourself  to  any  one  else,  for 
even  my  father  is  obliged  to  yield  to  me."  She  paused.  "  I 
cannot  tell  you  that  I  love  you,  in  the  sense  men  give  to  the 
word ;  but  what  I  feel  for  you  is  eternal  and  can  never  know 
any  change." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Butscha,  stooping  to  pick  up  a  pebble 
that  he  might  leave  a  kiss  and  a  tear  on  the  tip  of  Modeste's 
shoe,  "let  me  watch  over  you  as  a  dragon  watches  over  a 
treasure.  The  poet  spreads  before  you  just  now  all  the  filigree 
of  his  elaborate  phrases,  the  tinsel  of  his  promises.  He  sang 
of  love  to  the  sweetest  chord  of  his  lyre,  no  doubt  ?  If,  when 
this  noble  lover  is  fully  assured  of  your  having  but  a  small 
fortune,  you  should  see  his  demeanor  change ;  if  you  then  find 
him  cold  and  embarrassed,  will  you  still  make  him  your  hus- 
band, still  honor  him  with  your  esteem?  " 

"Can  he  be  a  Francisque  Althor?"  she  asked,  with  an 
expression  of  the  deepest  disgust. 

"Let  me  have  the  pleasure  of  working  this  transformation 
scene,"  said  Butscha.  "  Not  only  do  I  intend  that  it  shall  be 
sudden,  but  I  do  not  despair  of  restoring  your  poet  to  you 
afterward,  in  love  once  more,  of  making  him  blow  hot  and 
cold  on  your  heart  with  as  good  a  grace  as  when  he  argues  for 
and  against  the  same  thing  in  the  course  of  a  single  evening, 
sometimes  without  being  aware  of  it " 

"And  if  you  are  right,"  said  she,  "  whom  can  I  trust?  " 

"The  man  who  truly  loves  you." 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  225 

"The  little  Duke?" 

Butscha  looked  at  Modeste.  They  both  walked  on  a  few 
steps  in  silence.  The  girl  was  impenetrable;  she  did  not 
wince. 

"  Mademoiselle,  will  you  allow  me  to  put  into  words  the 
thoughts  that  lurk  at  the  bottom  of  your  heart  like  water- 
mosses  in  a  pool,  and  that  you  refuse  to  explain  to  yourself 
even?" 

"  Why,  indeed  !  "  cried  Modeste,  "  is  my  privy  councilor- 
in-waiting  a  mirror,  too?" 

"  No,  but  an  echo,"  he  replied,  with  a  little  bow  stamped 
with  the  utmost  modesty.  "The  Duke  loves  you,  but  he  loves 
you  too  well.  I,  a  dwarf,  have  fully  understood  the  exquisite 
delicacy  of  your  soul.  You  would  hate  to  be  adored  like  the 
holy  wafer  in  a  monstrance.  But,  being  so  eminently  a  woman, 
you  could  no  more  bear  to  see  a  man  of  whom  you  were  always 
secure  perpetually  at  your  feet,  than  you  could  endure  an 
egoist  like  Canalis,  who  would  always  care  more  for  himself 
than  for  you.  Why?  I  know  not.  I  would  I  could  be  a 
woman,  and  an  old  woman,  to  learn  the  reason  of  the  pro- 
gramme I  can  read  in  your  eyes,  which  is  perhaps  that  of  every 
girl. 

"At  the  same  time,  your  lofty  soul  craves  for  adoration. 
When  a  man  is  at  your  feet  you  cannot  throw  yourself  at  his. 
'  But  you  cannot  go  far  in  that  way,'  Voltaire  used  to  say. 
So  the  little  Duke  has,  morally  speaking,  too  many  genu- 
flexions, and  Canalis  not  enough— not  to  say  none  at  all.  And 
I  can  read  the  mischief  hidden  in  your  smile  when  you  are 
speaking  to  the  master  of  the  horse,  when  he  speaks  to  you 
and  you  reply.  You  would  never  be  unhappy  with  the  Duke ; 
everybody  would  be  pleased  if  you  chose  him  for  your  hus- 
band \  but  you  would  not  love  him.  The  coldness  of  egoism 
and  the  excessive  fervor  of  perennial  raptures  no  doubt  have  a 
negative  effect  on  the  heart  of  every  woman. 

"  Obviously  this  is  not  the  perpetual  triumph  that  you  would 
15 


226  MODESTE   MIGNON. 

enjoy  in  the  infinite  delights  of  such  a  marriage  as  that  you 
dream  of,  in  which  you  would  find  a  submission  to  be  proud 
of,  great  little  sacrifices  that  are  gladly  unconfessed,  successes 
looked  forward  to  with  rapture,  and  unforeseen  magnanimity 
to  which  it  is  a  joy  to  yield ;  in  which  a  woman  finds  herself 
understood  even  to  her  deepest  secrets,  while  her  love  is 
sometimes  a  protection  to  her  protector " 

"  You  are  a  wizard  !  "  cried  Modeste. 

"  Nor  will  you  meet  with  that  enchanting  equality  of  feel- 
ing, that  constant  sharing  of  life,  and  that  certainty  of  giving 
happiness  which  makes  marriage  acceptable,  if  you  marry  a 
Canalis,  a  man  who  thinks  only  of  himself,  to  whom  /  is  the 
only  note  in  the  scale,  and  whose  attention  has  not  yet  con- 
descended so  low  as  to  listen  to  your  father  or  the  Duke.  An 
ambitious  man,  not  of  the  first  class,  to  whom  your  dignity 
and  supremacy  matter  little,  who  will  treat  you  as  a  necessary 
chattel  in  his  house,  who  insults  you  already  by  his  indiffer- 
ence on  points  of  honor.  Yes,  if  you  allowed  yourself  to  go 
so  far  as  to  slap  your  mother,  Monsieur  Canalis  would  shut  his 
eyes  that  he  might  not  see  your  guilt,  so  hungry  is  he  for  your 
fortune  ! 

"  So,  mademoiselle,  I  was  not  thinking  of  the  great  poet, 
who  is  but  a  little  actor,  nor  of  my  lord  Duke,  who  would  be 
for  you  a  splendid  match,  but  not  a  husband " 

"  Butscha,  my  heart  is  a  blank  page  on  which  you  yourself 
write  what  you  read,"  replied  Modeste.  "You  are  carried 
away  by  your  provincial  hatred  of  everything  that  compels 
you  to  look  above  your  head.  You  cannot  forgive  the  poet 
for  being  a  political  man,  for  having  an  eloquent  tongue,  and 
a  splendid  future  ;  you  calumniate  his  purpose " 

"  His,  mademoiselle  !  He  would  turn  his  back  on  you 
within  twenty-four  hours  with  the  meanness  of  a  Vilquin." 

"Well,  make  him  play  such  a  farcical  scene,  and " 

"Ay,  and  in  every  key;  in  three  days — on  Wednesday — 
do  not  forget.  Until  then,  mademoiselle,  amuse  yourself  by 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  <ffl 

making  the  musical  box  play  all  its  airs,  that  the  vile  discords 
of  the  antiphony  may  come  out  all  the  more  clearly." 

Modeste  gayly  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  where  of  all 
the  men  present,  la  Briere  alone,  seated  in  the  recess  of  a 
window — whence,  no  doubt,  he  had  been  looking  at  his  idol 
— rose  at  her  entrance,  as  if  an  usher  had  shouted,  "  The 
Queen  !  "  It  was  a  respectful  impulse,  full  of  the  eloquence 
peculiar  to  action,  which  surpasses  that  of  the  finest  speech. 
Spoken  love  is  not  to  be  compared  with  love  in  action— every 
girl  of  twenty  is  fifty  as  concerns  this  axiom ;  this  is  the 
seducer's  strongest  argument. 

Instead  of  looking  Modeste  in  the  face,  as  Canalis  did, 
bowing  to  her  as  an  act  of  public  homage,  the  disdained 
lover  watched  her  with  a  slow  side-glance,  as  humble  as 
Butscha's,  almost  timid.  The  young  heiress  observed  this 
demeanor  as  she  went  to  place  herself  by  Canalis,  in  whose 
game  she  affected  an  interest.  In  the  course  of  the  conversa- 
tion la  Briere  learned,  from  a  remark  she  made  to  her  father, 
that  Modeste  intended  to  begin  riding  again  on  the  following 
Wednesday,  and  she  mentioned  that  she  had  no  riding-whip 
suitable  to  match  with  her  handsome  new  habit.  Ernest 
flashed  a  glance  at  the  dwarf  like  a  spark  of  fire,  and  a  few 
minutes  later  they  were  walking  together  on  the  terrace. 

"  It  is  now  nine  o'clock,"  said  la  Briere.  "I  am  off  to 
Paris  as  fast  as  my  horse  will  carry  me.  I  can  be  there  by 
ten  to-morrow  morning.  My  dear  Butscha,  from  you  she 
will  accept  a  gift  with  pleasure,  for  she  has  a  great  regard  for 
you ;  let  me  give  her  a  riding-whip  in  your  name ;  and,  be- 
lieve me,  in  return  for  such  an  immense  favor  you  have  in  me 
not  indeed  a  friend,  but  a  slave  !  " 

"Go;  you  are  happy,"  said  the  clerk.  "You  have 
money." 

"  Tell  Canalis  from  me  that  I  shall  not  be  in  to-night,  and 
that  he  must  invent  some  excuse  for  my  absence  for  two 
days." 


228  MODESTE  M1GNON. 

An  hour  later  Ernest  had  set  out  on  horseback  for  Paris, 
where  he  arrived  after  twelve  hours'  riding,  his  first  care 
being  to  secure  a  place  in  the  mail-coach  for  le  Havre  on  the 
following  day.  He  then  went  to  the  three  first  jewelers  in 
Paris,  comparing  handles  of  riding-whips,  and  seeking  what 
art  could  produce  of  the  most  royal  perfection.  He  found 
one  made  by  Stidmann  for  a  Russian  lady,  who,  after  order- 
ing it,  had  been  unable  to  pay  for  it — a  fox-hunt  wrought  in 
gold,  with  a  ruby  at  the  top,  and  exorbitantly  expensive  as 
compared  with  a  referendary's  stipend  ;  all  his  savings  were 
swallowed  up,  amounting  to  seven  thousand  francs.  Ernest 
gave  a  sketch  of  the  arms  of  la  Bastie,  allowing  twenty  hours 
for  them  to  be  engraved  instead  of  those  that  were  on  it. 
This  handle,  a  masterpiece  of  workmanship,  was  fitted  to  an 
india-rubber  whip,  and  placed  in  a  red  morocco  case,  lined 
with  velvet,  with  a  monogram  of  two  M's  on  the  top. 

By  Wednesday  morning  la  Briere  had  returned  by  the  mail, 
in  time  to  breakfast  with  Canalis.  The  poet  had  explained 
his  secretary's  absence  by  saying  that  he  was  busy  with  some 
work  forwarded  from  Paris.  Butscha,  who  had  gone  to  the 
coach  office  to  hold  out  a  welcoming  hand  to  Ernest  on  the 
arrival  of  the  mail,  flew  to  give  this  work  of  art  to  Francoise 
Cochet,  desiring  her  to  place  it  on  Modeste's  dressing-table. 

"You  are  going  out  riding,  no  doubt,  with  Mademoiselle 
Modeste,"  said  Butscha,  on  returning  to  Canalis'  villa  to 
inform  Ernest,  by  a  side-glance,  that  the  whip  had  safely 
reached  its  destination. 

"  I !  "  said  la  Briere.      "  I  am  going  to  bed." 

"  Well !  "  exclaimed  Canalis,  looking  at  his  friend,  "  I  do 
not  understand  you  at  all." 

Breakfast  was  ready,  and  the  poet  naturally  invited  the 
clerk  to  sit  down  with  them.  Butscha  had  stayed,  intending 
to  get  himself  invited  if  necessary  by  la  Bridre,  seeing  on 
Germain's  countenance  the  success  of  a  hunchback's  trick, 
of  which  his  promise  to  Modeste  may  have  given  a  hint. 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  229 

"  Monsieur  was  very  wise  to  keep  Monsieur  Latournelle's 
clerk,"  said  Germain  in  his  master's  ear.  Canalis  and  Ger- 
main, on  a  hint  from  the  latter,  passed  into  the  drawing-room. 
"This  morning  I  went  out  to  see  some  fishing,  an  expedition 
to  which  I  was  invited  the  day  before  yesterday  by  the  owner 
of  a  boat  I  have  made  acquaintance  with." 

Germain  did  not  confess  that  he  had  had  such  bad  taste  as 
to  play  billiards  in  a  cafe  in  le  Havre,  where  Butscha  had 
surrounded  him  with  a  number  of  his  friends  in  order  to  be 
able  to  work  upon  him. 

"What  then?"  said  Canalis.  "Come  to  the  point,  and 
at  once." 

"  Monsieur  le  Baron,  I  heard  a  discussion  about  Monsieur 
Mignon,  which  I  did  my  best  to  keep  going — no  one  knew 
who  I  lived  with.     I  tell  you,  Monsieur  le  Baron,  everybody 
in  le  Havre  says  that  you  are  running  your  head  against  a 
wall.     Mademoiselle  de  la  Bastie's  fortune  is,  like  her  name, 
very  modest.     The  ship  on  which  the  father  came  home  is  not 
his  own  ;   it  belongs  to  some  China  merchants,  with  whom  he 
has  to  settle,  and  things  are  said  about  it  that  are  far  from  flat- 
tering to  the  colonel.     Having  heard  that  you  and  Monsieur 
le  Due  were  rivals  for  Mademoiselle  de  la  Bastie,  I  take  the 
liberty  of  mentioning  it ;  for,  between  you  and  him,  it  is 
better  that  his  lordship  should  swallow  the  bait.     On  my  way 
back  I  took  a  turn  on  the  quay,  past  the  theatre,  where  the 
merchants  walk  up  and  down,  and  I  pushed  my  way  boldly 
among  them.     These  worthy  folk,  seeing  a  well-dressed  man, 
began  to  talk  about  the  affairs  of  the  town  ;  from  one  thing  to 
another  I  led  them  to  speak  of  Colonel  Mignon  ;  and  they 
were  so  much  of  the  same  mind  as  the  fishermen  that  I  felt  it 
my  duty  to  speak.     That  is  why  I  left  you,  sir,  to  get  up  and 

dress  alone " 

"  What  is  to  be  done?"  cried  Canalis,  feeling  that  he  was 

too  deeply  pledged  to  withdraw  from  his  promises  to  Modeste. 

"You  know  my  attachment  to  you,  sir,"  said  Germain, 


230  MODESTE   MIGNON, 

seeing  that  the  poet  was  thunderstruck,  "  and  you  will  not  be 
surprised  if  I  offer  a  piece  of  advice.  If  you  can  make  this 
clerk  drunk,  he  will  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag,  and  if  he 
won't  open  his  mouth  for  two  bottles  of  champagne,  he  cer- 
tainly will  for  the  third.  It  would  be  a  strange  thing,  too, 
if  monsieur,  who  will  certainly  be  an  ambassador  one  day,  for 
Philoxene  heard  Madame  la  Duchesse  say  so — if  you,  sir, 
cannot  get  round  a  country  lawyer's  clerk." 

At  this  moment  Butscha,  the  unknown  author  of  this  fish- 
ing expedition,  was  begging  the  referendary  to  say  nothing 
about  his  journey  to  Paris,  and  not  to  interfere  with  his  ma- 
noeuvres at  breakfast.  Butscha  meant  to  take  advantage  of  a 
reaction  of  feeling  unfavorable  to  Charles  Mignon,  which  had 
set  in  at  le  Havre. 

This  was  the  cause  of  that  reaction  :  Monsieur  le  Comte  de 
la  Bastie  had  entirely  ignored  those  of  his  former  friends  who, 
during  his  absence,  had  neglected  his  wife  and  children.  On 
hearing  that  a  dinner  was  to  be  given  at  the  Villa  Mignon, 
each  one  flattered  himself  that  he  would  be  among  the  guests, 
and  expected  an  invitation  ;  but  when  it  was  known  that  only 
Gobenheim,  the  Latournelles,  the  Duke,  and  the  two  Paris- 
ians were  to  be  asked,  there  was  a  loud  outcry  at  the  mer- 
chant's arrogance  ;  his  marked  avoidance  of  seeing  anybody 
and  of  ever  going  down  to  le  Havre  was  commented  on  and 
attributed  to  scorn,  on  which  the  whole  town  avenged  itself 
by  casting  doubts  on  Mignon's  sudden  wealth.  By  dint  of 
gossip  everybody  soon  ascertained  that  the  money  advanced 
to  Vilquin  on  the  villa  had  been  found  by  Dumay.  This  fact 
gave  the  most  malignant  persons  grounds  for  the  libelous 
supposition  that  Charles  had  confided  to  Dumay's  known  de- 
votion the  funds  concerning  which  he  anticipated  litigation 
on  the  part  of  his  so-called  partners  in  Canton.  Charles'  reti- 
cence, for  his  constant  aim  was  to  conceal  his  wealth,  and 
the  gossip  of  his  servants,  who  had  been  put  on  their  guard, 
lent  an  appearance  of  truth  to  these  monstrous  fables,  believed 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  231 

by  all  who  were  governed  by  the  spirit  of  detraction  that 
animates  rival  traders.  In  proportion  as  parochial  pride  had 
formerly  cried  up  his  immense  fortune  as  one  of  the  makers 
of  le  Havre,  so  now  provincial  jealousy  cast  doubts  on  it. 

Butscha,  to  whom  the  fishermen  of  the  port  owed  more 
than  one  good  turn,  desired  them  to  be  secret,  and  to  cram 
their  new  friend.  He  was  well  served.  The  owner  of  the 
boat  told  Germain  that  a  cousin  of  his,  a  sailor,  was  coming 
from  Marseilles,  having  just  been  paid  off  in  consequence  of 
the  sale  of  the  brig  in  which  the  colonel  had  come  home. 
The  vessel  was  being  sold  by  order  of  one  Castagnould,  and 
the  cargo — according  to  the  cousin — was  worth  only  three  or 
four  hundred  thousand  francs  at  most. 

"  Germain,"  said  Canalis,  as  the  servant  was  leaving  the 
room,  "  bring  us  up  some  champagne  and  some  bordeaux. 
A  member  of  the  legal  factor  of  Normandy  must  carry  away 
some  memories  of  a  poet's  hospitality.  And  he  has  the  wit 
of  '  le  Figaro/  "  added  Canalis,  laying  his  hand  on  the  dwarf's 
shoulder  ;  "  that  petit-journal  brilliancy  must  be  made  to 
sparkle  and  foam  with  the  wine  of  champagne  ;  we  will  not 
spare  ourselves  either,  Ernest  !  Why,  it  is  two  years  at  least 
since  I  last  got  tipsy,"  he  added,  turning  to  la  Briere. 

"With  wine?  That  I  can  quite  understand,"  replied  the 
clerk.  "You  get  tipsy  with  yourself  every  day!  In  the 
matter  of  praise,  you  drink  your  fill.  You  are  handsome; 
you  are  famous  during  your  lifetime  ;  your  conversation  is  on 
a  level  with  your  genius ;  and  you  fascinate  all  the  women, 
even  my  master's  wife.  Loved  as  you  are  by  the  most  beauti- 
ful Sultana  Valideh  I  ever  saw— it  is  true,  I  have  never  seen 
another— you  can,  if  you  choose,  marry  Mademoiselle  de  la 
Bastie.  Why,  merely  with  making  this  inventory  of  your 
present  advantages,  to  say  nothing  of  the  future— a  fine  title, 
a  peerage,  an  embassy !  I  am  quite  fuddled,  like  the  men 
who  bottle  wine  for  other  people  to  drink." 

"  All  this  social  magnificence  is  nothing,"  replied  Canalis, 


232  MODESTE   MIGNON. 

"  without  that  which  gives  them  value — a  fortune !  Here 
we  are  men  among  men;  fine  sentiments  are  delightful  in 
stanzas. ' ' 

"And  in  certain  circurm/a«z<w,"  said  Butscha,  with  a  sig- 
nificant shrug. 

"You,  a  master  of  the  mystery  of  settlements,"  said  the 
poet,  smiling  at  the  pun,  "  must  know  as  well  as  I  do  that 
cottage  rhymes  to  nothing  better  than  pottage." 

At  table  Butscha  played  with  signal  success  the  part  of  le 
Rigaudin  in  "la  Maison  en  Loterie,"  alarming  Ernest,  to 
whom  the  jests  of  a  lawyer's  office  were  unfamiliar ;  they  are 
a  match  for  those  of  the  studio.  The  clerk  repeated  all  the 
scandal  of  le  Havre,  the  history  of  every  fortune,  of  every 
boudoir,  and  of  all  the  crimes  committed  just  outside  the 
pale  of  the  law,  what  is  called  sailing  as  close  hauled  as  possi- 
ble (in  Normandy,  se  tirer  d"  affaire  comme  on  peuf).  He 
spared  no  one,  and  his  spirits  rose  with  the  stream  of  wine  he 
poured  down  his  throat  like  storm-water  through  a  gutter. 

"  Do  you  know,  la  Briere,"  said  Canalis,  filling  up  Butscha's 
glass,  "  that  this  brave  boy  would  be  a  first-rate  secretary  to 
an  ambassador?" 

"And  cut  out  his  master !  "  retorted  the  dwarf  with  a  look 
at  Canalis,  of  insolence  redeemed  by  the  sparkle  of  carbonic 
acid  gas.  "  I  have  enough  spirit  of  intrigue  and  little  enough 
gratitude  to  climb  on  to  your  shoulders.  A  poet  supporting 
an  abortion  !  Well,  it  has  been  seen,  and  pretty  frequently — 
in  libraries.  Why,  you  are  staring  at  me  as  if  I  were  swallow- 
ing swords.  Heh !  my  dear,  great  genius,  you  are  a  very 
superior  man  ;  you  know  full  well  that  gratitude  is  a  word  for 
idiots ;  it  is  to  be  found  in  the  dictionary,  but  not  in  the 
human  heart.  I  O  U  is  a  formula  unhonored  on  the  green 
banks  of  Parnassus  or  Pindus.  Do  you  suppose  I  feel  the 
debt  to  my  master's  wife  for  having  brought  me  up?  Why, 
the  whole  town  has  paid  it  off  in  esteem,  praise,  and  admira- 
tion, the  most  precious  of  all  coin.  I  do  not  see  the  virtue 


'YOU   WILL   MAKE   ME   DRUNK,"   SAID   THE  CLERK. 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  233 

that  is  merely  an  investment  for  the  benefit  of  one's  vanity. 
Men  make  a  trade  of  reciprocal  services ;  the  word  gratitude 
represents  the  debit  side,  that  is  all. 

"  As  to  intrigue,  I  adore  it !  What !  "  he  went  on,  in  reply 
to  a  gesture  from  Canalis,  "  do  you  not  delight  in  the  faculty 
which  enables  a  crafty  man  to  get  the  upper  hand  of  a  man 
of  genius,  which  requires  constant  observation  of  the  vices 
and  weaknesses  of  our  betters,  and  a  sense  of  the  nick  of 
time  for  everything  ?  Ask  diplomacy  whether  the  triumph 
of  cunning  over  strength  is  not  the  most  delightful  success 
there  is.  If  I  were  your  secretary,  Monsieur  le  Baron,  you 
would  soon  be  prime  minister,  because  it  would  be  to  my 
interest !  Now,  would  you  like  a  sample  of  my  little  talents 
of  that  kind  ?  Hearken  !  You  love  Mademoiselle  Modeste 
to  distraction,  and  you  are  very  right.  In  my  opinion,  the 
girl  is  a  genuine  Parisienne,  for  here  and  there  a  Parisienne 
sprouts  in  the  country.  Our  Modeste  would  be  a  wife  to 
push  a  man.  She  has  that  sort  of  thing,"  said  he,  giving  his 
hand  a  twirl  in  the  air.  "  You  have  a  formidable  rival  in  the 
Duke.  Now,  what  will  you  give  me  to  pack  him  off  within 
three  days?" 

"  Let  us  finish  this  bottle,"  said  the  poet,  refilling  Butscha's 
glass. 

"You  will  make  me  drunk!  "said  the  clerk,  swallowing 
down  his  ninth  glass  of  champagne.  "  Is  there  a  bed  where 
I  may  sleep  for  an  hour?  My  master  is  as  sober  as  a  camel, 
the  old  fox,  and  Madame  Latournelle  too.  They  would  both 
be  hard  upon  me,  and  they  would  have  good  reason,  while  I 
should  have  lost  mine,  and  I  have  some  work  to  do." 

Then  going  back  to  a  former  subject  without  any  transition, 
after  the  manner  of  a  man  when  he  is  screwed,  he  exclaimed— 

"  And  then,  what  a  memory  I  have  !  It  is  a  match  for  my 
gratitude." 

"Butscha!"  exclaimed  the  poet,  "  just  now  you  said  that 
you  had  no  gratitude;  you  are  contradicting  yourself." 


234  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  the  clerk.  "Forgetting  almost  always 
means  remembering  !  Now,  then,  on  we  go !  I  am  made  to 
be  a  secretary. ' ' 

"  And  how  will  you  set  to  work  to  get  rid  of  the  Duke?  " 
asked  Canalis,  charmed  to  find  the  conversation  tending 
naturally  to  the  subjects  he  aimed  at. 

"That — is  no  concern  of  yours,"  said  Butscha,  with  a 
tremendous  hiccough. 

Butscha  rolled  his  head  on  his  shoulders,  and  his  eyes  from 
Germain  to  la  Briere,  and  from  la  Briere  to  Canalis,  in  the 
manner  of  a  man  who  feels  intoxication  creeping  over  him, 
and  wants  to  know  in  what  esteem  he  is  held ;  for  in  the 
wreck  of  drunkenness  it  may  be  noted  that  self-esteem  is  the 
last  sentiment  to  float. 

''Look  here,  great  poet,  you  are  a  jolly  fellow,  you  are. 
Do  you  take  me  for  one  of  your  readers,  you  who  sent  your 
friend  to  Paris  to  procure  information  concerning  the  house 
of  Mignon.  I  humbug,  you  humbug,  we  humbug.  Well 
and  good  ;  but  do  me  the  honor  to  believe  that  I  am  clear- 
headed enough  always  to  keep  as  much  conscience  as  I  need 
in  my  sphere  of  life.  As  head  clerk  to  Maitre  Latournelle 
my  heart  is  a  padlocked  despatch-box,  my  lips  never  breathe 
a  word  of  any  paper  concerning  the  clients.  I  know  every- 
thing, and  I  know  nothing.  And  then,  passion  is  no  secret: 
I  love  Modeste,  she  is  a  pupil  of  mine,  she  must  marry  well ; 
and  I  could  get  round  the  Duke  if  necessary.  But  you  are 
going  to  marry ' ' 

"Germain,  coffee  and  liqueurs,"  said  Canalis  to  his  man- 
servant. 

"Liqueurs?"  repeated  Butscha,  holding  up  a  forbidding 
hand  like  a  too  knowing  maiden  putting  aside  some  little 
temptation.  "  Oh,  my  poor  work  !  By  the  way,  there  is  a 
marriage  contract  to  be  drawn  up,  and  my  second  clerk  is  as 
stupid  as  a  matrimonial  bargain,  and  quite  capable  of  p-p-pok- 
ing  a  penknife  through  the  bride's  personal  property.  He 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  235 

thinks  himself  a  fine  fellow  because  he  measures  nearly  six 
feet— the  idiot !  " 

"Here,  this  is  creme  de  th6,  a  West  India  liqueur,"  said 
Canalis.  "  You  who  are  Mademoiselle  Modeste's  most  trusty 
adviser " 

"  Her  adviser  ? " 

"  Well,  do  you  think  she  loves  me?  " 

"Ye-e-es,  more  than  she  loves  the  Duke,"  drawled  the 
dwarf,  rousing  himself  from  a  sort  of  torpor,  which  he  acted 
to  admiration.  "  She  loves  you  for  your  disinterestedness. 
She  told  me  that  for  you  she  felt  equal  to  the  greatest  sacri- 
fices, to  giving  up  dress,  spending  only  a  thousand  francs  a 
year,  devoting  her  life  to  prove  to  you  that  in  marrying  her 
you  would  have  done  a  good  stroke  of  business.  And  she  is 
devilish  honest  (hiccough),  I  can  tell  you,  and  well  informed  ; 
there  is  nothing  that  girl  does  not  know." 

"That  and  three  hundred  thousand  francs,"  said  Canalis. 

"  Oh  !  there  may  be  as  much  as  you  say,"  replied  the 
clerk  with  enthusiasm.  "  Mignon  Papa — and  you  see  he  is 
really  a  Mignon,  a  dear  papa,  that's  what  I  like  him  for — to 
marry  his  only  daughter — well,  he  would  strip  himself  of 
everything.  The  colonel  has  been  accustomed  under  your 
restoration  to  live  on  half-pay  (hiccough),  and  he  will  be  quite 
happy  living  with  Dumay,  speculating  in  a  small  way  at  le 
Havre  ;  he  will  be  sure  to  give  the  child  his  three  hundred 
thousand  francs.  Then  we  must  not  forget  Dumay,  who 
means  to  leave  his  fortune  to  Modeste.  Dumay,  you  know, 
is  a  Breton  ;  his  birth  gives  security  to  the  bargain  ;  he  never 
changes  his  mind,  and  his  fortune  is  quite  equal  to  his  mas- 
ter's. At  the  same  time,  since  they  listen  to  me  at  least  as 
much  as  to  you,  though  I  do  not  talk  so  much  nor  so  well,  I 
said  to  them,  '  You  are  putting  too  much  money  into  your 
house ;  if  Vilquin  leaves  it  on  your  hands,  there  are  two  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  that  will  bring  you  no  return.  There 
will  be  only  a  hundred  thousand  francs  left  to  turn  over, 


236  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

and  that,  in  my  opinion,  is  not  enough.'  At  this  moment 
the  colonel  and  Dumay  are  talking  it  over.  Take  my  word 
for  it,  Modeste  is  rich.  The  people  of  the  town  talk  non- 
sense, they  are  envious.  Why,  who  in  the  department  has 
such  a  portion  ?  ' '  said  Butscha,  holding  up  his  fingers  to 
count.  "Two  to  three  hundred  thousand  francs  in  hard 
cash!  "  said  he,  folding  down  his  left  thumb  with  the  fore- 
finger of  his  right  hand.  "  That  is  for  one.  The  freehold 
of  the  Villa  Mignon,"  and  he  doubled  down  his  left  fore- 
finger, "for  two;  Dumay's  fortune  for  three,"  he  added, 
ticking  it  off  on  the  middle  finger.  "Why,  little  Mother 
Modeste  is  a  lady  with  six  hundred  thousand  francs  of  her 
own  when  the  two  old  soldiers  shall  have  gone  aloft  to  take 
further  orders  from  God  A' mighty." 

This  blunt  and  artless  communication,  broken  by  sips  of 
liqueur,  sobered  Canalis  as  much  as  it  seemed  to  intoxicate 
Butscha.  To  the  lawyer's  clerk,  a  mere  provincial,  this  for- 
tune was  evidently  colossal.  He  let  his  head  drop  on  the 
palm  of  his  right  hand,  and  with  the  elbow  majestically  rest- 
ing on  the  table,  he  sat  blinking  and  talking  to  himself:  "  In 
twenty  years,  at  the  pace  the  code  is  taking  us,  melting  down 
fortunes  by  the  process  of  subdivision,  an  heiress  with  six 
hundred  thousand  francs  will  be  as  rare  as  disinterestedness 
in  a  money-lender.  You  may  say  that  Modeste  will  spend  at 
least  twelve  thousand  francs  a  year,  the  interest  of  her  for- 
tune ;  but  she  is  a  very  nice  girl — very  nice — very  nice.  She 
is  as  you  may  say — a  poet  must  have  imagery — she  is  an 
ermine  as  knowing  as  a  monkey." 

"And  what  did  you  tell  me?  "  cried  Canalis  in  an  under- 
tone to  la  Briere.  "  That  she  had  six  millions?  " 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Ernest,  "allow  me  to  remark 
that  I  could  say  nothing.  I  am  bound  by  an  oath,  and 
it  is  perhaps  saying  more  than  I  ought  to  tell  you " 

"An  oath!  and  to  whom?" 

"To  Monsieur  Mignon." 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  237 

"  Why,  Ernest,  when  you  know  how  indispensable  fortune  is 
to  me"— Butscha  was  snoring— "  you  who  know  my  posi- 
tion and  all  that  I  should  lose  in  the  Rue  de  Crenelle  by 
marrying— you  would  have  coolly  allowed  me  to  plunge 
in?"  said  Canalis,  turning  pale.  "But  this  is  a  matter 
between  friends;  and  our  friendship,  my  boy,  is  a  compact 
of  a  far  older  date  than  this  that  the  wily  Provencal  has 
required  of  you." 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Ernest,  "I  love  Modeste  too 
well  to " 

"Idiot,  take  her!"  cried  the  poet.  "So  break  your 
oath " 

"  Do  you  solemnly  promise,  on  your  honor  as  a  man,  to 
forget  what  I  tell  you,  and  to  be  just  the  same  to  me 
as  though  I  had  never  confided  it  to  you,  come  what 
may?" 

"  I  swear  it  by  the  sacred  memory  of  my  mother !  " 

"Well,  when  I  was  in  Paris,  Monsieur  Mignon  told  me 
that  he  was  very  far  from  having  such  a  colossal  fortune  as  the 
Mongenods  had  spoken  of.  The  colonel  intends  to  give  his 
daughter  two  hundred  thousand  francs.  But  then,  Melchior, 
was  the  father  suspicious  ?  or  was  he  sincere  ?  It  is  no  concern 
of  mine  to  solve  that  question.  If  she  should  condescend  to 
choose  me,  Modeste,  with  nothing,  should  be  my  wife." 

"  A  blue-stocking,  appallingly  learned,  who  has  read  every- 
thing and  knows  everything — in  theory,"  cried  Canalis,  in 
reply  to  a  protesting  gesture  of  la  Briere's;  "a  spoilt  child, 
brought  up  in  luxury  during  her  early  years,  and  weaned  from 
it  for  the  last  five.  Oh,  my  poor  friend,  think,  pause,  con- 
sider  " 

"  Ode  and  Code  !  "  said  Butscha,  rousing  himself.  "  You 
go  in  for  the  Ode,  and  I  for  the  Code ;  there  is  only  a  C 
between.  Code,  from  coda,  a  tail !  You  have  treated  me 
handsomely,  and  I  like  you— don't  have  anything  to  do  with 
the  Code.  Listen  ;  a  piece  of  good  advice  is  not  a  bad  return 


238  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

for  your  wine  and  your  creme  de  the.  Old  Mignon  is 
cream  too,  the  cream  of  good  fellows.  Well,  trot  out  your 
horse,  he  is  riding  out  with  his  daughter;  you  can  speak 
frankly  to  him ;  ask  him  about  her  marriage  portion  ;  he  will 
give  you  a  plain  answer,  and  you  will  see  to  the  bottom  of 
things  as  sure  as  I  am  tipsy  and  you  are  a  great  man ;  but  then 
there  must  be  no  mistake,  we  leave  le  Havre  together,  I 
suppose  ?  I  am  to  be  your  secretary,  since  this  little  chap, 
who  thinks  I  am  drunk  and  is  laughing  at  me,  is  going  to 
leave  you.  Go  ahead.  March  ! — and  leave  him  to  marry 
the  girl." 

Canalis  went  to  dress. 

"Not  a  word;  he  is  rushing  on  suicide,"  said  Butscha  (as 
cool  as  Gobenheim)  to  la  Briere,  very  quietly ;  and  he  tele- 
graphed behind  Canalis  a  signal  of  scorn  familiar  to  the  Paris 
street  boy.  "  Good-by,  master,"  he  went  on  at  the  top  of  his 
voice,  "  may  I  go  and  get  forty  winks  in  Madame  Amaury's 
summer-house  ? ' ' 

"  Make  yourself  at  home,"  replied  the  poet  as  Butscha 
staggered  out. 

The  clerk,  loudly  laughed  at  by  Canalis'  three  servants, 
made  his  way  to  the  summer-house,  plunging  into  flower-beds 
and  baskets  with  the  perverse  grace  of  an  insect  describing  its 
endless  zigzags  as  it  tries  to  escape  through  a  closed  window. 
He  scrambled  up  into  the  gazebo,  and  when  the  servants  had 
gotten  indoors  he  sat  down  on  a  wooden  bench  and  gave  him- 
self up  to  the  joys  of  triumph.  He  had  fooled  the  superior 
man  ;  not  only  had  he  snatched  off  his  mask,  but  he  had  seen 
him  untie  the  strings,  and  he  laughed  as  an  author  laughs  at 
his  piece,  with  a  full  appreciation  of  the  value  of  this  vis 
comic  a. 

"  Men  are  tops!  "  cried  he;  "  you  have  only  to  find  the 
end  of  the  string  that  is  wound  around  them.  Why,  any  one 
could  make  me  faint  away  by  simply  saying,  '  Mademoiselle 
Modeste  has  fallen  off  her  horse  and  broken  her  leg.'  " 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  230 

A  few  minutes  later,  Modeste,  wearing  a  bewitching  habit 
of  dark-green  kerseymere,  a  little  hat  with  a  green  veil,  doe- 
skin gloves,  and  velvet  boots,  over  which  the  lace  frills  of  her 
drawers  fell  gracefully,  had  mounted  her  handsomely  saddled 
pony,  and  was  showing  to  her  father  and  the  Due  d'Herou- 
ville  the  pretty  gift  she  had  just  received ;  she  was  delighted 
with  it,  seeing  in  it  one  of  those  attentions  which  most  flatter 
a  woman. 

"Was  it  you,  Monsieur  le  Due?"  she  said,  holding  out 
the  sparkling  end  of  her  whip.  "There  was  a  card  on  it 
with  the  words,  '  Guess  if  you  can,'  and  a  row  of  dots. 
Franchise  and  Madame  Dumay  ascribe  this  charming  surprise 
to  Butscha ;  but  my  dear  Butscha  is  not  rich  enough  to  pay 
for  such  fine  rubies !  And  my  father,  on  my  saying  on 
Sunday  evening  that  I  had  no  whip,  sent  for  that  one  from 
Rouen." 

Modeste  pointed  to  a  whip  in  her  father's  hand  with  a 
handle  set  closely  with  turquoises,  a  fashionable  novelty  then, 
but  now  rather  common. 

"  I  only  wish,  mademoiselle — I  would  give  ten  years  of  my 
life  to  have  the  right  of  offering  such  a  magnificent  jewel," 
replied  the  Duke  politely. 

"  Ah !  then  here  is  the  audacious  man,"  cried  Modeste, 
seeing  Canalis  come  up  on  horseback.  "  None  but  a  poet 
can  find  such  exquisite  things.  Monsieur,"  she  went  on  to 
Melchior,  "  my  father  will  be  angry  with  you;  you  are  justi- 
fying those  who  blame  you  for  your  extravagance." 

"Hah!"  cried  Canalis  simply,  "then  that  is  what  took 
la  Briere  from  le  Havre  to  Paris  as  fast  as  he  could  ride." 

"  Your  secretary  took  such -a  liberty  !  "  said  Modeste,  turn- 
ing pale,  and  flinging  the  whip  to  Francoise  Cochet  with  a 
vehemence  expressive  of  the  deepest  contempt.  "  Give  me 
back  that  whip,  father !  "  >f 

"  The  poor  boy  is  lying  on  his  bed  broken  with  fatigue  ! 
Melchior  went  on,  as  they  followed  the  girl,  who  had  gone  off- 


240  MODESTE   MIGNON. 

at  a  gallop.  "  You  are  hard,  mademoiselle.  '  I  have  this 
chance  alone  of  reminding  her  of  my  existence,'  was  what  he 
said.  " 

"And  could  you  esteem  a  woman  who  was  capable  of  pre- 
serving keepsakes  from  every  comer  ? ' '  asked  Modeste. 

Modeste,  who  was  surprised  at  receiving  no  reply  from 
Canalis,  ascribed  his  inattention  to  the  sound  of  the  horse's 
hoofs. 

"How  you  delight  in  tormenting  those  who  are  in  love 
with  you!"  said  the  Duke.  "Your  pride  and  dignity  so 
entirely  belie  your  vagaries  that  I  am  beginning  to  suspect 
that  you  do  yourself  injustice  by  deliberately  planning  your 
malicious  tricks  !  " 

"What !  you  have  just  discovered  that,  Monsieur  le  Due?" 
returned  she,  with  a  laugh.  "  You  have  exactly  as  much  in- 
sight as  a  husband  !  " 

For  about  a  kilometre  they  rode  on  in  silence.  Modeste 
was  surprised  at  being  no  longer  aware  of  the  flaming  glances 
of  Canalis,  whose  admiration  for  the  beauties  of  the  landscape 
seemed  rather  more  than  was  natural.  On  the  preceding 
evening  Modeste  had  pointed  out  to  the  poet  a  beautiful  effect 
of  color  in  the  sunset  over  the  sea,  and,  finding  him  as  speech- 
less as  a  mute,  had  said — 

"  Well,  do  you  not  see  it  all  ?  " 

"  I  see  nothing  but  your  hand,"  he  had  replied. 

"  Does  Monsieur  de  la  Briere  know  how  to  ride?  "  Modeste 
asked,  to  pique  him. 

"He  is  not  a  very  good  horseman,  but  he  goes,"  replied 
the  poet,  as  cold  as  Gobenheim  had  been  before  the  colonel's 
return. 

As  they  went  along  a  cross-road,  down  which  Monsieur 
Mignon  turned  to  go  through  a  pretty  valley  to  a  hill  over- 
looking the  course  of  the  Seine,  Canalis  let  Modeste  and  the 
Duke  go  forward,  slackening  his  speed  so  as  to  bring  his  horse 
side  by  side  with  the  colonel's. 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  241 

"  Monsieur  le  Comte,"  said  he,  "  you  are  a  frank  soldier, 
so  you  will  regard  my  openness  as  a  claim  to  your  esteem. 
When  an  offer  of  marriage,  with  all  the  too  barbarous,  or,  if 
you  will,  too  civilized  discussions  to  which  it  gives  rise,  is  made 
through  a  third  person,  every  one  suffers.  You  and  I  are  both 
men  of  perfect  discretion,  and  you,  like  me,  are  past  the  age 
for  surprises,  so  let  us  speak  as  man  to  man.  I  will  set  the 
example.  I  am  nine-and-twenty,  I  have  no  landed  estate,  I 
am  an  ambitious  man.  That  I  ardently  admire  Mademoiselle 
Modeste  you  must  have  seen.  Now,  in  spite  of  the  faults  your 
charming  daughter  delights  in  affecting " 

"  To  say  nothing  of  those  she  really  has,"  said  the  colonel, 
smiling. 

"  I  should  be  glad,  indeed,  to  make  her  my  wife,  and  I  be- 
lieve I  could  make  her  happy.  The  whole  question  of  my 
future  life  turns  on  the  point  of  fortune.  Every  girl  who  is 
open  to  marriage  must  be  loved  whatever  comes  of  it ;  at  the 
same  time  you  are  not  the  man  to  get  rid  of  your  dear  Modeste 
without  a  portion,  and  my  position  would  no  more  allow  of 
my  marrying  '  for  love,'  as  the  phrase  is,  than  of  my  proposing 
to  a  girl  without  a  fortune  at  least  equal  to  my  own.  My 
salary  and  some  sinecures,  with  what  I  get  from  the  Academy, 
and  my  writings,  come  to  about  thirty  thousand  francs  a  year, 
a  fine  income  for  a  bachelor.  If  my  wife  and  I  between  us 
have  sixty  thousand  francs  a  year,  I  could  continue  to  live  on 
much  the  same  footing  as  at  present.  Have  you  a  million 
francs  to  give  Mademoiselle  Modeste?" 

"Oh!  monsieur,  we  are  very  far  from  any  agreement," 
said  the  colonel  jesuitically. 

"  Well,  then,  we  have  said  nothing  about  the  matter— only 
whistled,"  said  Canalis  anxiously.  "  You  will  be  quite  satis- 
fied with  my  conduct,  Monsieur  le  Comte ;  I  shall  be  one 
more  of  the  unfortunate  men  crushed  by  that  charming  young 
lady.  Give  me  your  word  that  you  will  say  nothing  of  this 
to  anybody,  not  even  to  Mademoiselle  Modeste;  for,"  he 
16 


242  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

added,  by  way  of  consolation,  "  some  change  might  occur  in 
my  position  which  would  allow  of  my  asking  her  hand  without 
a  settlement." 

"I  swear  it,"  said  the  colonel.  "You  know,  monsieur, 
with  what  exaggerated  language  the  public,  in  the  provinces 
as  in  Paris,  talk  of  fortunes  made  and  lost.  Success  and 
failure  are  alike  magnified,  and  we  are  never  so  lucky  or  so 
unlucky  as  report  says.  In  business  there  is  no  real  security 
but  investment  in  land  when  cash  transactions  are  settled.  I 
am  awaiting  with  anxious  impatience  the  reports  of  my  various 
agents ;  nothing  is  as  yet  concluded — neither  the  sale  of  my 
merchandise  and  my  ship,  nor  my  account  with  China.  I 
shall  not  for  the  next  ten  months  know  the  amount  of  my 
capital.  However,  in  Paris,  when  talking  to  Monsieur  de  la 
Briere,  I  guaranteed  a  settlement  on  my  daughter  of  two 
hundred  thousand  francs  in  money  down.  I  intend  to  pur- 
chase a  landed  estate  and  settle  it  in  tail  on  my  grandchildren, 
obtaining  for  them  a  grant  of  my  titles  and  coat-of-arms." 

After  the  first  words  of  this  speech  Canalis  had  ceased  to 
listen. 

The  four  riders  now  came  out  on  a  wide  road  and  rode 
abreast  up  to  the  plateau,  which  commands  a  view  of  the  rich 
valley  of  the  Seine  towards  Rouen,  while  on  the  other  horizon 
they  could  still  see  the  line  of  the  sea. 

"  Butscha  was  indeed  right,  God  is  a  great  landscape- 
maker,"  said  Canalis,  as  he  looked  down  on  the  panorama, 
unique  among  those  for  which  the  hills  above  the  Seine  are 
justly  famous. 

"  But  it  is  when  out  hunting,  my  dear  Baron,"  said  the 
Duke,  "  when  nature  is  roused  by  a  voice,  by  a  stir  in  the 
silence,  that  the  scenery,  as  we  fly  past,  seems  most  really 
sublime  with  the  rapid  change  of  effect." 

"The  sun  has  an  inexhaustible  palette,"  said  Modeste, 
gazing  at  the  poet  in  a  sort  of  bewilderment.  On  her  making 
a  remark  as  to  the  absence  of  mind  she  observed  in  Canalis, 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  243 

he  replied  that  he  was  "  reveling  in  his  own  thoughts,"  an 
excuse  which  writers  can  make  in  addition  to  those  common 
to  other  men. 

"  Are  we  really  blest  when  we  transfer  our  life  to  the  centre 
of  the  world,  and  add  to  it  a  thousand  factitious  needs  and 
overwrought  vanities?"  asked  Modeste,  as  she  contemplated 
the  calm  and  luxuriant  champaign  which  seemed  to  counsel 
philosophical  quietude. 

"  Such  bucolics,  mademoiselle,  are  always  written  on  tables 
of  gold,"  said  the  poet. 

"  And  imagined,  perhaps,  in  a  garret,"  interposed  the 
colonel. 

Modeste  gave  Canalis  a  piercing  look,  and  saw  him  flinch ; 
there  was  a  sound  of  bells  in  her  ears ;  for  a  moment  every- 
thing grew  dark  before  her  \  then,  in  a  hard,  cold  tone,  she 
exclaimed — 

"  Ah  !  it  is  Wednesday  !  " 

"It  is  not  with  the  idea  of  flattering  a  merely  transient 
fancy  of  yours,  mademoiselle,"  said  the  Due  d'Herouville 
solemnly — for  this  little  scene,  so  tragical  to  Modeste,  had 
given  him  time  for  thought — "but,  I  assure  you,  I  am  so 
utterly  disgusted  with  the  world,  the  court,  and  Paris  life, 
that,  for  my  part,  with  a  Duchesse  d'Hdrouville  so  full  of 
charm  and  wit  as  you  are,  I  could  pledge  myself  to  live  like  a 
philosopher  in  my  chateau,  doing  good  to  those  about  me, 
reclaiming  my  alluvial  flats,  bringing  up  my  children ' 

"  This  shall  be  set  down  to  your  credit,  Duke,"  said  Mod- 
este, looking  steadily  at  the  noble  gentleman.  "You  flatter 
me,"  she  added,  "  for  you  do  not  think  me  frivolous,  and  you 
believe  that  I  have  enough  resources  in  myself  to  live  in  soli- 
tude. And  that  perhaps  will  be  my  fate,"  she  added,  look- 
ing at  Canalis  with  a  compassionate  expression. 

"It  is  the  lot  of  all  small  fortunes,"  replied  the  poet. 
"  Paris  requires  Babylonian  luxury.  I  sometimes  wonder  how 
I  have  managed  to  live  till  now." 


244  MODESTE   MIGNON. 

"The  King  is  Providence  to  you  and  me,"  said  the  Duke 
frankly,  "  for  we  both  live  on  his  majesty's  bounty.  If,  since 
the  death  of  Monsieur  le  Grand,  as  Cinq-Mars  was  called,  we 
had  not  always  held  his  office  in  our  family,  we  should  have 
had  to  sell  Herouville  to  be  demolished  by  the  Black  Gang. 
Believe  me,  mademoiselle,  it  is  to  me  a  terrible  humiliation 
to  mix  up  financial  considerations  with  the  thought  of  mar- 
riage  ' ' 

The  candor  of  this  avowal,  which  came  from  the  heart,  and 
the  sincerity  of  this  regret,  touched  Modeste. 

"In  these  days,"  said  the  poet,  "nobody  in  France,  Mon- 
sieur le  Due,  is  rich  enough  to  commit  the  folly  of  marrying 
a  woman  for  her  personal  merits,  her  charm,  her  character,  or 
her  beauty " 

The  colonel  looked  at  Canalis  with  a  strange  expression, 
after  studying  his  daughter,  whose  face  no  longer  expressed 
any  astonishment. 

"Then  for  a  man  of  honor,"  he  said,  "it  is  a  noble  use 
of  riches  to  devote  them  to  repair  the  ravages  that  time  has 
wrought  on  our  old  historical  families." 

"Yes,  papa,"  said  the  girl  gravely. 

The  colonel  asked  the  Duke  and  Canalis  to  dine  at  the 
villa,  without  ceremony,  in  their  riding  dress,  and  set  them 
the  example  by  not  changing  his  for  dinner.  When,  on  their 
return,  Modeste  went  to  change  her  dress,  she  looked  curiously 
at  the  trinket  that  had  come  from  Paris,  and  that  she  had  so 
cruelly  disdained. 

"  How  exquisitely  such  work  is  done  nowadays,"  said  she 
to  Francoise  Cochet,  who  was  now  her  maid. 

"And  that  poor  young  gentleman,  mademoiselle,  ill  of  a 
fever " 

"Who  told  you  so?" 

"Monsieur  Butscha.  He  came  here  just  now  to  bid  me 
say  you  had  no  doubt  found  out  that  he  had  kept  his  word  on 
the  day  he  named." 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  245 

Modeste  went  down  stairs,  dressed  with  queenly  sim- 
plicity. 

"  My  dear  father,"  said  she,  quite  audibly,  taking  the  col- 
onel's arm,  "will  you  go  and  ask  after  Monsieur  de  la  Briere, 
and  oblige  me  by  taking  back  his  present.  You  may  put  it 
to  him  that  my  small  fortune,  as  well  as  my  own  taste,  pro- 
hibits my  using  such  toys  as  are  fit  only  for  a  queen  or  a 
courtesan.  Beside,  I  can  only  accept  presents  from  the  man 
I  may  hope  to  marry.  Beg  our  excellent  young  friend  to 
keep  the  whip  till  you  find  yourself  rich  enough  to  buy  it  of 
him." 

"  Then  my  little  girl  is  full  of  good  sense ! "  replied  the 
colonel,  kissing  her  on  the  forehead. 

Canalis  took  advantage  of  a  conversation  between  the  Due 
d'Herouville  and  Madame  Mignon  to  go  out  on  the  terrace, 
where  Modeste  presently  joined  him,  urged  by  curiosity,  while 
he  believed  it  was  by  her  desire  to  become  Madame  Canalis. 
Somewhat  alarmed  at  his  own  audacity  in  thus  executing  what 
a  soldier  would  call  "right  about  face,"  though,  according 
to  the  jurisprudence  of  ambitious  souls,  every  man  in  his 
place  would  have  done  the  same,  and  just  as  suddenly,  he 
tried  to  find  some  plausible  reasons  as  he  saw  the  ill-starred 
Modeste  come  out  to  him. 

"  Dear  Modeste,"  said  he,  in  insinuating  tones,  "as  we  are 
on  such  terms  of  friendship,  will  you  be  offended  if  I  point 
out  to  you  how  painfnl  your  replies  with  regard  to  Monsieur 
d'Herouville  must  be  to  a  man  who  loves  you,  and,  above  all, 
to  a  poet,  whose  soul  is  a  woman,  is  all  nerves,  and  suffering 
from  the  myriad  jealousies  of  a  genuine  passion.  I  should  be 
a  poor  diplomat  indeed  if  I  had  not  understood  that  your 
preliminary  flirtations,  your  elaborate  recklessness,  were  the 
outcome  of  a  plan  to  study  our  characters " 

Modeste  raised  her  head  with  a  quick,  intelligent,  and 
pretty  movement,  of  a  type  that  may  perhaps  be  traced  to 
certain  animals  to  which  instinct  gives  wonderful  grace. 


246  MODESTE   MIGNON. 

"  And  so,  thrown  back  on  myself,  I  was  no  longer  deceived 
by  them.  I  marveled  at  your  subtle  wit,  in  harmony  with 
your  character  and  your  countenance.  Be  satisfied  that  I 
never  imagined  your  assumed  duplicity  to  be  anything  but  an 
outer  wrapper,  covering  the  most  adorable  candor.  No,  your 
intelligence,  your  learning,  .have  left  untainted  the  exquisite 
innocence  we  look  for  in  a  wife.  You  are  the  very  wife  for  a 
poet,  a  diplomatist,  a  thinker,  a  man  fated  to  live  through 
hazardous  moments,  and  I  admire  you  as  much  as  I  feel  at- 
tached to  you.  I  entreat  you,  unless  you  were  merely  playing 
with  me  yesterday  when  you  accepted  the  pledges  of  a  man 
whose  vanity  will  turn  to  pride  if  he  is  chosen  by  you,  whose 
faults  will  turn  to  virtues  at  your  divine  touch — I  beseech  you, 
do  not  crush  the  feeling  he  has  indulged  till  it  is  a  vice  ! 

"  Jealousy  in  me  is  a  solvent,  and  you  have  shown  me 
what  its  violence  is ;  it  is  fearful ;  it  eats  into  everything  ! 
Oh  !  it  is  not  the  jealousy  of  Othello  !  "  said  he,  in  reply  to 
a  movement  on  Modeste's  part.  "  No,  no  !  I  myself  am  in 
question  ;  I  am  spoiled  in  this  regard.  You  know  of  the  one 
affection  to  which  I  owe  the  only  form  of  happiness  I  have 
yet  known — and  that  very  incomplete."  He  shook  his  head. 

"  Love  is  depicted  as  a  child  by  every  nation,  because  it 
cannot  be  conceived  of  but  as  having  all  life  before  it.  Well, 
this  love  of  mine  had  its  term  fixed  by  nature  ;  it  was  still- 
born. The  most  intuitive  motherliness  discerned  and  soothed 
this  aching  spot  in  my  heart,  for  a  woman  who  feels — who 
sees — that  she  is  dying  to  the  joys  of  love,  has  angelic  consid- 
eration ;  the  Duchess  has  never  given  me  a  pang  of  that  kind. 
In  ten  years  not  a  word,  not  a  look,  has  failed  of  its  mark. 
I  attach  more  importance  than  ordinary  people  do  to  words, 
thoughts,  and  looks.  To  me  a  glance  is  an  infinite  posses- 
sion, the  slightest  doubt  is  a  mortal  poison,  and  acts  instan- 
taneously :  I  cease  to  love.  In  my  opinion — which  is  opposed 
to  that  of  the  vulgar,  who  revel  in  trembling,  hoping,  waiting 
— love  ought  to  dwell  in  absolute  assurance,  childlike,  infinite. 


MODESTE   MIGNON.  247 

To  me  the  enchanting  purgatory  which  women  delight  in 
inflicting  on  us  with  their  caprices  is  an  intolerable  form  of 
happiness  to  which  I  will  have  nothing  to  say ;  to  me,  love 
is  heaven  or  hell.  Hell  I  will  not  have ;  I  feel  that  'l  am 
strong  enough  to  endure  the  sempiternal  blue  of  paradise.  I 
give  myself  unreservedly,  I  will  have  no  secrets,  no  doubts, 
no  delusions  in  my  future  life,  and  I  ask  for  reciprocity. 
Perhaps  I  offend  you  by  doubting  you  !  But,  remember,  I 
am  speaking  only  of  myself " 

"And  a  great  deal,"  said  Modeste,  hurt  by  all  the  lancet 
points  of  this  harangue,  in  which  the  Duchesse  de  Chaulieu 
was  used  as  a  sledge-hammer,  "  but  it  can  never  be  too  much ; 
I  have  a  habit  of  admiring  you,  my  dear  poet." 

"Well,  then,  can  you  promise  me  the  dog-like  fidelity  I 
offer  you  ?  Is  it  not  fine  ?  Is  it  not  what  you  wish  for  ?  " 

"  But  why,  my  dear  poet,  do  you  not  look  for  a  wife  who 
is  dumb  and  blind  and  something  of  a  fool  ?  I  am  quite  pre- 
pared to  please  my  husband  in  all  things ;  but  you  threaten 
to  deprive  a  girl  of  the  very  happiness  you  promise  her,  to 
snatch  it  from  her  at  the  slightest  movement,  the  slightest 
word,  the  slightest  look  !  You  cut  the  bird's  wings  and  want 
to  see  it  fly !  I  knew  that  poets  were  accused  of  inconsist- 
ency. Oh  !  quite  unjustly,"  she  added,  as  Canalis  protested 
by  a  gesture,  "  for  the  supposed  fault  is  merely  the  result  of  a 
vulgar  misapprehension,  of  the  suddenness  of  their  impulses. 
Still,  I  had  not  thought  that  a  man  of  genius  would  devise  the 
contradictory  conditions  of  such  a  game,  and  then  call  it  life ! 
You  insist  on  impossibilities  just  to  have  the  pleasure  of  put- 
ting me  in  the  wrong,  like  those  enchanters  who  in  fairy  tales 
set  tasks  to  persecuted  damsels  whom  good  fairies  rescue " 

"In  this  case  true  love  will  be  the  fairy,"  said  Canalis, 
rather  drily,  seeing  that  his  motive  for  a  separation  had  been 
detected  by  the  acute  and  delicate  intelligence  which  Butscha 
had  put  on  the  scent. 

"  You,  at  this  moment,  my  dear  poet,  are  like  those  parents 


248  MODESTE   MIGNON. 

who  inquire  as  to  a  girl's  fortune  before  mentioning  what  their 
son's  will  be.  You  make  difficulties  with  me,  not  knowing 
whether  you  have  any  right  to  do  so.  Love  cannot  be  based 
on  agreements  discussed  in  cold  blood.  The  poor  Duke 
allows  himself  to  be  managed  with  all  the  submissiveness  of 
Uncle  Toby  in  Sterne's  novel,  with  this  difference,  that  I  am 
not  the  widow  Wadman,  though  bereaved  at  this  moment  of 
many  illusions  concerning  poetry.  Yes !  we  hate  to  believe 
anything,  we  girls,  that  can  overthrow  our  world  of  fancy  ! 
I  had  been  told  all  this  beforehand  !  Oh  !  you  are  trying  to 
quarrel  with  me  in  a  way  unworthy  of  you  !  I  cannot  recog- 
nize the  Melchior  of  yesterday." 

"  Because  Melchior  has  detected  in  you  an  ambition  you 
still  cherish  ? " 

Modeste  looked  at  Canalis  from  head  to  foot  with  an  im- 
perial glance. 

"  But  I  shall  some  day  be  an  ambassador  and  a  peer  as 
he  is " 

"You  take  me  for  a  vulgar  school-girl !  "  she  said,  as  she 
went  up  the  steps.  But  she  turned  hastily,  and  added  in  some 
confusion,  for  she  felt  suffocating — 

"That  is  less  insolent  than  taking  me  for  a  fool.  The 
change  in  your  demeanor  is  due  to  the  nonsense  current  in  le 
Havre,  which  Franchise,  my  maid,  has  just  repeated  to  me." 

"Oh,  Modeste,  can  you  believe  that?  "  cried  Canalis,  with 
theatrical  emphasis.  "  Then  you  think  that  I  want  to  marry 
you  only  for  your  fortune  !  " 

"  If  I  do  you  this  injustice  after  your  edifying  remarks  on 
the  hills  by  the  Seine,  it  lies  with  you  to  undeceive  me,  and 
thenceforth  I  will  be  what  you  would  wish  me  to  be,"  said 
she,  blighting  him  with  her  scorn. 

"If  you  think  you  can  catch  me  in  that  trap,  my  lady," 
said  the  poet  to  himself  as  he  followed  her,  "you  fancy  me 
younger  than  I  am.  What  an  ado,  to  be  sure,  for  a  little  hussy 
for  whose  esteem  I  care  no  more  than  for  that  of  the  King  of 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  -_MO 

Borneo.  However,  by  ascribing  to  me  an  ignoble  motive  she 
justifies  my  present  attitude.  Isn't  she  cunning?  La  Briere 
will  be  saddled,  like  the  little  fool  that  he  is ;  and  five  years 
hence  we  shall  laugh  at  him  well,  she  and  I." 

The  coolness  produced  by  this  dispute  between  Modeste 
and  Canalis  was  obvious  to  all  eyes  that  evening.  Canalis 
withdrew  early,  on  the  pretext  of  la  Briere's  illness,  leaving 
the  field  free  to  the  master  of  the  horse.  At  about  eleven 
Butscha,  who  had  come  to  escort  Madame  Latournelle  home, 
said  in  an  undertone  to  Modeste — 

"Was  I  right?" 

"Alas,  yes!  "  said  she. 

"  But  have  you  done  as  we  agreed,  and  left  the  door  ajar  so 
that  he  may  return  ?  " 

" My  anger  was  too  much  for  me,"  replied  Modeste.  "Such 
meanness  brought  the  blood  to  my  head,  and  I  told  him  my 
mind." 

"Well,  so  much  the  better!  When  you  have  quarreled 
so  that  you  cannot  speak  civilly  to  each  other,  even  then  I 
undertake  to  make  him  so  devoted  and  pressing  that  you  your- 
self will  be  taken  in  by  him." 

"  Come,  come,  Butscha;  he  is  a  great  poet,  a  gentleman, 
and  a  man  of  intellect." 

"Your  father's  eight  millions  will  be  more  than  all  that." 

"  Eight  millions !  "  said  Modeste. 

"  My  master,  who  is  selling  his  business,  is  setting  out  for 
Provence  to  look  into  Castagnould's  investments  as  your 
father's  agent.  The  sum-total  of  the  contracts  for  repur- 
chasing the  lands  of  la  Bastie  amounts  to  four  millions  of 
francs,  and  your  father  has  consented  to  every  item.  Your 
settlement  is  to  be  two  millions,  and  the  colonel  allows  one 
for  establishing  you  in  Paris  with  a  house  and  furniture.  Cal- 
culate." 

"Ah,  then,  I  may  be  Duchesse  d'HSrouville,"  said  Modeste, 

looking  at  Butscha, 


250  MODESTE  MIGNON, 

"  But  for  that  ridiculous  Canalis,  you  would  have  kept  his 
whip,  as  sent  by  me,"  said  Butscha,  putting  in  a  word  for  la 
Briere. 

"  Monsieur  Butscha,  do  you  really  expect  me  to  marry  the 
man  you  may  choose  ?  ' '  retorted  Modeste,  laughing. 

"  That  worthy  young  fellow  loves  as  truly  as  I  do ;  you 
loved  him  yourself  for  a  week,  and  he  is  a  man  of  genuine 
heart,"  replied  the  clerk. 

"And  can  he  compete  with  a  crown  appointment,  do  you 
think  ?  There  are  but  six — the  high  almoner,  the  chancellor, 
the  lord  chamberlain,  the  master  of  the  horse,  the  high  con- 
stable, the  high  admiral.  But  there  are  no  more  lords  high 
constable." 

"  But  in  six  months,  mademoiselle,  the  people,  composed 
of  an  infinite  number  of  malignant  Butschas,  may  blow  upon 
all  this  grandeur.  Beside,  what  does  nobility  matter  in  these 
days  ?  There  are  not  a  thousand  real  noblemen  in  France. 
The  d'Herouvilles  are  descended  from  an  usher  of  the  rod 
under  Robert  of  Normandy.  You  will  have  many  a  vexation 
from  those  two  knife-faced  old  maids.  If  you  are  bent  on 
being  a  duchess — well,  you  belong  to  Franche  Comte,  the 
pope  will  have  at  least  as  much  consideration  for  you  as  for  the 
tradespeople,  he  will  sell  you  a  duchy  ending  in  nia  or  agno. 
Do  not  trifle  with  your  happiness  for  the  sake  of  a  crown  ap- 
pointment." 

The  reflections  indulged  in  by  Canalis  during  the  night  were 
all  satisfactory.  He  could  imagine  nothing  in  the  world 
worse  than  the  situation  of  a  married  man  without  a  fortune. 
Still  tremulous  at  the  thought  of  the  danger  he  had  been  led 
into  by  his  vanity,  which  he  had  pledged,  as  it  were,  to  Mod- 
este by  his  desire  to  triumph  over  the  Due  d'Herouville,  and 
by  his  belief  in  Monsieur  Mignon's  millions,  he  began  to 
wonder  what  the  Duchesse  de  Chaulieu  must  be  thinking  of 
his  stay  at  le  Havre,  aggravated  by  five  days'  cessation  from 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  2.51 

letter-writing,  whereas  in  Paris  they  wrote  each  other  four  or 
five  notes  a  week. 

'•'And  the  poor  woman  is  struggling  to  get  me  promoted  to 
be  commander  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  and  to  the  place  of 
minister  to  the  Grand  Duchy  of  Baden  !  "  cried  he. 

Forthwith,  with  the  prompt  decisiveness  which  in  poets,  as 
in  speculators,  is  the  result  of  a  clear  intuition  of  the  future,  he 
sat  down  and  wrote  the  following  letter  : 

To  Madame  la  Duchesse  dc  Chaulieu. 

"  MY  DEAR  ELEONORE  : — You  are,  no  doubt,  astonished  at 
having  had  no  news  of  me,  but  my  stay  here  is  not  merely 
a  matter  of  health  ;  I  also  have  had  to  do  my  duty  in  some 
degree  to  our  little  friend  la  Briere.  The  poor  boy  has  fallen 
desperately  in  love  with  a  certain  Demoiselle  Modeste  de  la 
Bastie,  a  little  pale-faced,  insignificant  thread-paper  of  a  girl, 
who,  by  the  way,  has  as  a  vice  a  mania  for  literature,  and  calls 
herself  poetical  to  justify  the  whims,  the  tantrums,  and  changes 
of  a  pretty  bad  temper.  You  know  Ernest,  he  is  so  easily  made 
a  fool  of  that  I  would  not  trust  him  alone.  Mademoiselle  de 
la  Bastie  set  up  a  strange  flirtation  with  your  Melchior ;  she 
was  very  well  inclined  to  be  your  rival,  though  she  has  lean 
arms  and  scraggy  shoulders,  like  most  young  girls,  hair  more 
colorless  than  Madame  de  Rochefide's,  and  a  very  doubtful 
expression  in  her  little  gray  eyes.  I  pulled  up  this  Immod- 
este's  advances  pretty  short — perhaps  rather  too  roughly;  but 
that  is  the  way  of  an  absorbing  passion.  What  do  I  care  for 
all  the  women  on  earth,  who,  all  put  together,  are  not  worth 
you? 

"  The  people  with  whom  we  spend  our  time,  who  surround 
this  heiress,  are  bourgeois  enough  to  make  one  sick.  Pity  me ; 
I  spend  my  evenings  with  notaries'  clerks,  their  wives,  their 
cashiers,  and  a  provincial  money-lender ;  wide  indeed  is  the 
gulf  between  this  and  the  evenings  in  the  Rue  de  Crenelle. 


252  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

The  father's  trumped-up  fortune — he  has  just  come  home  from 
China — has  secured  us  the  company  of  that  omnipresent  suitor 
the  master  of  the  horse,  hungrier  for  millions  than  ever,  since 
it  will  cost  six  or  seven,  they  say,  to  reclaim  and  work  the 
much-talked-of  alluvion  of  Herouville.  The  King  has  no 
idea  what  a  fatal  gift  he  has  made  to  the  little  Duke.  His 
grace,  who  does  not  suspect  how  small  a  fortune  his  hoped-for 
father-in-law  possesses,  is  jealous  only  of  me.  La  Briere  is 
making  his  way  with  his  idol  under  cover  of  his  friend,  who 
serves  as  a  screen. 

"In  spite  of  Ernest's  raptures,  I,  the  poet,  think  of  the 
substantial ;  and  the  information  I  have  gathered  as  to  the 
gentleman's  wealth  casts  a  gloomy  hue  over  our  secretary's 
prospects,  for  his  lady-love  has  sharp  enough  teeth  to  eat  a 
hole  in  any  fortune.  Now,  if  my  angel  would  redeem  some 
of  our  sins,  she  would  try  to  find  out  the  truth  about  this 
matter,  by  sending  for  her  banker,  Mongenod,  and  cross- 
questioning  him  with  the  skill  that  distinguishes  her.  Mon- 
sieur Charles  Mignon,  formerly  a  colonel  in  the  cavalry  of  the 
Imperial  Guard,  has  for  seven  years  been  in  constant  commu- 
nication with  Mongenod's  house.  They  talk  here  of  two 
hundred  thousand  francs  in  settlement,  at  most;  and  before 
making  an  offer  in  form  for  the  young  lady  on  Ernest's  be- 
half, I  should  be  glad  to  have  positive  data.  As  soon  as  the 
good  folks  are  agreed,  I  return  to  Paris.  I  know  a  way  of 
bringing  the  business  to  a  satisfactory  conclusion  for  our  lover. 
All  that  is  needed  is  to  secure  permission  for  Monsieur  Mig- 
non's  son-in-law  to  take  his  title  of  Count,  and  no  man  is 
more  likely  to  obtain  such  a  grant  than  Ernest,  in  view  of 
his  services,  especially  when  seconded  by  us  three — you,  the 
Duke,  and  myself.  With  his  tastes,  Ernest,  who  will  un- 
doubtedly rise  to  be  a  master  of  the  exchequer,  will  be  per- 
fectly happy  living  in  Paris  if  he  is  certain  of  twenty-five 
thousand  francs  a  year,  a  permanent  office,  and  a  wife — poor 
wretch ! 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  253 

"Oh,  my  dear!  how  I  long  to  see  the  Rue  de  Crenelle 
again  !  A  fortnight's  absence,  when  it  does  not  kill  love, 
revives  the  ardor  of  its  early  days,  and  you  know,  better  per- 
haps than  I,  all  the  reasons  that  make  my  love  eternal.  My 
bones  in  the  tomb  will  love  you  still !  Indeed,  I  cannot  hold 
out !  If  I  am  compelled  to  remain  ten  days  longer,  I  must 
go  to  Paris  for  a  few  hours. 

"  Has  the  Duke  got  me  rope  to  hang  myself?  And  you, 
dear  life,  shall  you  have  to  take  the  Baden  waters  this  sea- 
son ?  The  cooing  of  our  secret  love,  as  compared  with  the 
accents  of  happy  love — always  the  same,  and  true  to  itself  for 
nearly  ten  years  past — has  given  me  a  deep  contempt  of  mar- 
riage ;  I  had  never  seen  all  this  so  close  to  my  eyes  before. 
Ah  !  my  dear,  what  is  called  wrongdoing  is  a  far  closer  tie 
between  two  souls  than  the  law — is  it  not?" 

This  idea  served  as  the  text  for  two  pages  of  reminiscences 
and  of  aspirations  of  too  private  a  nature  for  publication. 

On  the  day  before  Canalis  posted  this  letter,  Butscha,  who 
wrote  under  the  name  of  Jean  Jacmin  to  his  imaginary  cousin 
Philoxene,  had  sent  off  his  answer  twelve  hours  in  advance 
of  the  poet's  letter.  The  Duchess,  for  the  last  fortnight  ex- 
tremely alarmed  and  offended  by  Melchior's  silence,  had 
dictated  Philoxene's  letter  to  her  cousin ;  and  now,  after 
reading  the  clerk's  reply — somewhat  too  decisive  for  the 
vanity  of  a  lady  of  fifty — had  made  minute  inquiries  as  to 
Colonel  Mignon's  fortune.  Finding  herself  betrayed,  de- 
serted for  money,  El6onore  gave  herself  up  to  a  paroxysm  of 
rage,  hatred,  and  cold  malignancy.  Philoxene,  knocking  at 
the  door  of  her  mistress'  luxurious  room,  on  going  in,  found 
her  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  stood  amazed  at  this  unprece- 
dented phenomenon,  which  she  had  never  before  seen  during 
fifteen  years  of  service. 

"  We  expiate  the  happiness  of  ten  years  in  ten  minutes !  " 
exclaimed  the  Duchess. 

"  A  letter  from  le  Havre,  madame." 


L>54  MODESTE  MlGNON. 

Eleonore  read  Canalis'  effusion  of  prose  without  observing 
Philoxene's  presence,  and  the  maid's  surprise  was  heightened 
as  she  saw  the  Duchess'  face  recover  its  serenity  as  she  read 
the  letter.  If  you  hold  out  to  a  drowning  man  a  pole  as 
thick  as  a  walking  stick,  he  will  regard  it  as  the  king's  high- 
way to  safety ;  and  so  the  happy  Eleonore  believed  in  the 
poet's  good  faith  as  she  perused  these  sheets  in  which  love 
and  business,  lies  and  truth,  elbowed  each  other. 

Just  now,  when  the  banker  had  left  her,  she  had  sent  for 
her  husband  to  hinder  Melchior's  promotion  if  there  were 
time  yet ;  but  a  generous  regret  came  over  her  that  rose  to  a 
sublime  impulse. 

"Poor  boy!"  thought  she,  "he  has  not  the  smallest 
thought  of  ill.  He  loves  me  as  he  did  the  first  day  ;  he  tells 
me  everything.  Philoxene !  "  said  she,  noticing  her  head 
maid  loitering  about  and  affecting  to  arrange  the  toilet-table. 

"  Madame  la  Duchesse  ?  " 

"My  hand-glass,  child." 

Eleonore  looked  at  herself,  noted  the  razor-fine  lines  groov- 
ing her  forehead,  but  invisible  at  a  distance ;  and  she  sighed, 
for  she  believed  that  in  that  sigh  she  was  taking  leave  of  love. 
Then  she  had  a  man's  thought,  above  the  pettiness  of  woman 
— a  thought  which  is  sometimes  intoxicating;  an  intoxica- 
tion which  may  perhaps  account  for  the  clemency  of  the 
Semiramis  of  the  North  when  she  made  her  young  and  lovely 
rival  MomonofFs  wife. 

"  Since  he  has  not  failed  me,  I  will  get  the  millions  and 
the  girl  for  him,"  thought  she,  "  if  this  little  Mademoiselle 
Mignon  is  as  plain  as  he  says  she  is." 

Three  knocks,  delicately  rapped  out,  announced  the  Duke, 
for  whom  his  wife  herself  opened  the  door. 

"  Ah  !  you  are  better,  my  dear,"  cried  he,  with  the  as- 
sumed gladness  that  courtiers  so  well  know  how  to  put  on, 
and  by  which  simpletons  are  taken  in. 

"My  dear  Henri,"  said  she,  "it  is   really  inconceivable 


MODESTE   MIGNON.  255 

that  you  should  not  by  this  time  have  secured  Melchior's 
appointment,  after  sacrificing  yourself  for  the  King  during 
your  year's  ministry,  knowing  that  it  would  scarcely  endure 
so  long  !  ' ' 

The  Duke  glanced  at  Philoxene ;  and  the  maid,  by  an 
almost  imperceptible  jerk  of  the  head,  showed  him  the  letter 
from  le  Havre  on  the  dressing-table.  "  You  would  be  bored 
to  death  in  Germany  and  quarrel  with  Melchior  before  your 
return,"  said  the  Duke  artlessly. 

"Why?" 

"Well,  would  you  not  always  be  together?"  replied  the 
erewhile  ambassador  with  comical  candor. 

"  Oh  !  no,"  said  she  ;  "I  mean  to  get  him  married." 

"If  d'Herouville  is  to  be  believed,  our  dear  Canalis  has 
not  waited  for  your  good  offices,"  replied  the  Duke,  smiling. 
"  Grandlieu  yesterday  read  me  some  passages  of  a  letter  to 
him  from  the  master  of  the  horse,  which  was  no  doubt  edited 
by  his  aunt  to  come  to  your  ears  ;  for  Mademoiselle  d'Herou- 
ville, always  on  the  lookout  for  a  fortune,  knows  that  Grand- 
lieu  and  I  play  whist  together  almost  every  evening.  That 
good  little  d'Herouville  invites  the  Prince  de  Cadignan  to  a 
royal  hunt  in  Normandy,  begging  him  to  persuade  the  King 
to  go,  so  as  to  turn  the  damsel's  head  when  she  finds  herself 
the  object  of  such  a  chivalrous  procession.  In  fact,  two 
words  from  Charles  X.  would  settle  everything.  D'He>ou- 
ville  says  the  girl  is  incomparably  lovely." 

"Henri,  let  us  go  to  le  Havre !  "  cried  the  Duchess,  inter- 
rupting her  husband. 

"But  on  what  excuse?"  said  he  gravely — a  man  who  had 
been  in  the  intimate  confidence  of  Louis  XVIII. 

"  I  never  saw  a  hunt." 

"  That  would  be  all  very  well  if  the  King  should  be  there, 
but  to  go  so  far  for  a  hunt  would  be  ridiculous ;  and  he  will 
not  go,  I  have  just  spoken  to  him  about  it." 

"  MADAME  perhaps  would  go " 


256  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

"  That  is  a  better  plan,"  said  the  Duke ;  "  and  the  Duchesse 
de  Maufrigneuse  may  help  you  to  get  her  away  from  Rosny. 
Then  the  King  would  make  no  objection  to  his  hounds  being 
taken  out.  But  do  not  go  to  le  Havre,  my  dear,"  said  the 
Duke,  in  a  paternal  tone  ;  "it  would  make  you  conspicuous. 
Look  here  ;  this,  I  think,  will  be  a  better  plan.  Gaspard  has 
his  Chateau  of  Rosembray,  on  the  further  side  of  the  forest 
of  Brotonne ;  why  not  give  him  a  hint  to  receive  all  the  party 
there?" 

"  Through  whom  ?  " 

"  Why,  his  wife  the  Duchess,  who  attends  the  holy  table 
with  Mademoiselle  d'  Herouville,  might  ask  Gaspard  to  do  it 
if  the  old  maid  hinted  it  to  her." 

"  You  are  the  dearest  man  !  "  said  Eleonore.  "  I  will  write 
two  lines  to  the  old  lady,  and  to  Diane ;  for  we  must  have 
hunting-suits  made.  The  little  hat,  now  I  think  of  it,  makes 
one  look  very  much  younger.  Did  you  win  yesterday  at  the 
English  embassy  ? ' ' 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Duke  ;  "  I  wiped  out  my  score." 

"  And,  above  all,  Henri,  set  everything  aside  till  Mel- 
chior's  two  promotions  are  settled." 

After  writing  a  few  lines  to  the  fair  Diane  de  Maufrigneuse 
and  a  note  to  Mademoiselle  d' Herouville,  Eleonore  flung  this 
reply  like  the  smack  of  a  horsewhip  across  Canalis'  lies : 

To  Monsieur  le  Baron  de  Canalis. 

"  MY  DEAR  POET  : — Mademoiselle  de  la  Bastie  is  beautiful; 
Mongenod  assures  me  that  her  father  has  eight  millions  of 
francs ;  I  had  thought  of  making  her  your  wife,  so  I  am 
deeply  annoyed  by  your  want  of  confidence  in  me.  If  before 
you  started  for  le  Havre,  you  aimed  at  getting  la  Briere 
married  to  her,  I  cannot  imagine  your  not  telling  me  so 
plainly  before  you  went.  And  why  pass  a  fortnight  without 
writing  a  line  to  a  friend  so  easily  alarmed  as  I  am  ? 


MODESTE  At  1C N ON.  257 

"  Your  letter  came  a  little  late ;  I  had  already  seen  the 
banker.  You  are  a  child,  Melchior ;  you  try  to  be  cunning 
with  us.  That  is  not  right.  Even  the  Duke  is  amazed  at 
your  behavior ;  he  thinks  you  not  quite  gentlemanly — which 
casts  a  doubt  on  the  virtue  of  your  lady  mother. 

"  Now,  I  want  to  see  things  for  myself.  I  shall,  I  believe, 
have  the  honor  of  attending  MADAME  to  the  hunt  arranged 
by  the  Due  d'Herouville  for  Mademoiselle  de  la  Bastie.  I 
will  contrive  that  you  shall  be  invited  to  stay  at  Rosembray, 
as  the  hunt  will  probably  take  place  at  the  Due  de  Verneuil's. 

"  Believe  me,  none  the  less,  my  dear  poet,  your  friend  for 
life,  EL£ONORE." 

"  There,  Ernest,"  said  Canalis,  tossing  this  letter,  which 
arrived  at  breakfast-time,  across  the  table  in  la  Briere's  face. 
"  That  is  the  two  thousandth  love-letter  I  have  received  from 
that  woman,  and  there  is  not  one  single  'thou.'  The  noble 
Eleonore  never  compromised  herself  further  than  what  you 
find  there.  Get  married,  and  make  haste  about  it !  The 
worst  marriage  in  the  world  is  more  tolerable  than  the  lightest 
of  these  halters.  Well,  I  am  the  veriest  Nicodemus  that  ever 
dropped  from  the  moon.  Modeste  has  millions ;  she  is  lost 
to  me  for  ever ;  for  no  one  ever  comes  back  from  the  poles, 
where  we  now  are,  to  the  tropics,  where  we  dwelt  three  days 
ago !  Beside,  I  have  all  the  more  reason  to  wish  for  your 
triumph  over  the  little  Duke,  because  I  told  the  Duchesse  de 
Chaulieu  that  I  came  here  only  for  your  sake ;  so  now  I  shall 
work  for  you." 

"Alas,  Melchior,  Modeste  must  need  have  so  superior,  so 
mature  a  character,  and  such  a  noble  mind,  to  resist  the  spec- 
tacle of  the  court,  and  all  the  splendor  so  skillfully  displayed 
in  her  honor  and  glory  by  the  Duke,  that  I  cannot  believe  in 
the  existence  of  such  perfection  ;  and  yet — if  she  is  still  the 
Modeste  of  her  letters,  there  may  be  a  hope— 

"  You  are  a  happy  fellow,  young  Boniface,  to  see  the  world 
17 


258  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

and  your  lady-love  through  such  green  spectacles ! ' '  ex- 
claimed Canalis,  going  out  to  walk  in  the  garden. 

The  poet,  caught  between  two  falsehoods,  could  not  make 
up  his  mind  what  to  do  next. 

"  Play  the  game  by  the  rules,  and  you  lose  !  "  cried  he  as 
he  sat  in  the  summer-house.  "  Every  man  of  sense  would 
undoubtedly  have  acted  as  I  did  four  days  ago,  and  have 
crept  out  of  the  trap  in  which  I  found  myself.  For  in  such 
a  case  you  don't  wait  to  untie  the  knots;  you  break  through 
everything  !  Come,  I  must  be  cold,  calm,  dignified,  hurt. 
Honor  will  not  allow  of  any  other  demeanor.  English  rigid- 
ity is  the  only  way  to  recover  Modeste's  respect.  After  all, 
if  I  only  get  out  of  the  scrape  by  falling  back  on  my  old 
felicity,  my  ten  years'  fidelity  will  be  rewarded.  El6onore 
will  find  me  a  suitable  match." 

The  hunt  was  destined  to  be  the  rallying-point  of  all  the 
passions  brought  into  play  by  the  colonel's  fortune  and  his 
daughter's  beauty.  There  was  a  sort  of  truce  among  the  con- 
tending parties  during  the  few  days  needed  to  prepare  this 
solemn  act  of  forestry;  the  drawing-room  in  the  Villa  Mignon 
had  the  peaceful  appearance  of  a  very  united  family  party. 
Canalis,  intrenched  in  his  part  of  a  much-injured  man,  made 
a  display  of  courtesy;  he  put  aside  his  pretentiousness,  gave 
no  more  specimens  of  oratorical  talent,  and  was  charming,  as 
clever  men  are  when  they  shed  their  affectations.  He  dis- 
cussed the  money-market  with  Gobenheim,  war  with  the 
colonel,  Germany  with  Madame  Mignon,  and  housekeeping 
with  Madame  Latournelle,  trying  to  win  them  over  to  la 
Briere.  The  Due  d'Herouville  frequently  left  the  field  free 
to  the  two  friends,  as  he  was  obliged  to  go  to  Rosembray  to 
consult  the  Due  de  Verneuil  and  superintend  the  execution  of 
the  orders  issued  by  the  master  of  the  hounds,  the  Prince  de 
Cadignan. 

Meanwhile,  the  comic  element  was  not  lacking.     Modeste 


MODESTE  M1GNON.  259 

found  herself  between  the  disparagement  Canalis  tried  to  cast 
on  the  Duke's  gallant  attentions  and  the  exaggerated  views 
of  the  two  Demoiselles  d'Herouville,  who  came  every  evening. 
Canalis  pointed  out  to  Modeste  that,  far  from  being  the  hero- 
ine of  the  day,  she  would  be  scarcely  noticed.  MADAME 
would  be  attended  by  the  Duchesse  de  Maufrigneuse,  the 
daughter-in-law  of  the  master  of  the  hounds,  by  the  Duchesse 
de  Chaulieu,  and  some  other  ladies  of  the  court,  and  among 
them  a  mere  girl  would  produce  no  sensation.  Some  officers 
would,  no  doubt,  be  invited  from  the  garrison  at  Rouen,  etc. 
Helene  was  never  tired  of  repeating  to  the  girl,  whom  she 
looked  upon  as  her  sister-in-law,  that  she  would,  of  course, 
be  presented  to  MADAME  ;  that  the  Due  de  Verneuil  would 
certainly  invite  her  and  her  father  to  stay  at  Rosembray ;  that 
if  the  colonel  had  any  favor  to  ask  of  the  King — such  as  a  peerage 
— this  would  be  a  unique  opportunity,  for  they  did  not  despair 
of  getting  the  King  there  on  the  third  day;  that  she  would 
be  surprised  at  the  charming  reception  she  would  meet  with 
from  the  handsomest  women  of  the  court,  the  Duchesses  de 
Chaulieu,  de  Maufrigneuse,  de  Lenoncourt-Chaulieu,  etc.; 
Modeste's  prejudices  against  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain 
would  disappear — and  so  forth,  and  so  forth.  It  was  a  most 
amusing  little  warfare,  with  its  marches  and  counter-marches 
and  strategy,  which  the  Dumays,  the  Latournelles,  Goben- 
heim,  and  Butscha  looked  upon  and  enjoyed,  saying  among 
themselves  all  manner  of  hard  things  about  the  nobility,  as 
they  watched  their  elaborate,  cruel,  and  studied  meanness. 

The  assurances  of  the  d'Herouville  faction  were  justified  by 
an  invitation,  in  the  most  flattering  terms,  from  the  Due  de 
Verneuil  and  the  master  of  the  King's  hounds  to  Monsieur 
le  Comte  de  la  Bastie  and  his  daughter  to  be  present  at  a 
royal  hunt  at  Rosembray  on  the  7th,  8th,  pth,  and  loth  of 
November. 

La  Briere,  oppressed  by  gloomy  presentiments,  reveled  in 
Modeste's  presence  in  that  spirit  of  concentrated  avidity 


260  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

whose  bitter  joys  are  known  only  to  lovers  irrevocably  and 
for  ever  discarded.  The  flashes  of  happiness  in  his  inmost 
self,  mingled  with  melancholy  reflections  on  the  same  theme, 
"  She  is  lost  to  me  !  "  made  the  poor  youth  a  pathetic  spec- 
tacle, all  the  more  touching  because  his  countenance  and  per- 
son were  in  harmony  with  this  depth  of  feeling.  There  is 
nothing  more  poetical  than  such  a  living  elegy  that  has  eyes, 
that  walks,  and  sighs  without  rhyming. 

Finally,  the  Due  d'Herouville  came  to  arrange  for  Mod- 
este's  journey.  After  crossing  the  Seine,  she  was  to  proceed 
in  the  Duke's  traveling  carriage  with  his  aunt  and  sister. 
The  Duke  was  perfect  in  his  courtesy ;  he  invited  Canalis  and 
la  Briere,  telling  them,  as  he  told  Monsieur  Mignon,  that 
they  would  find  hunters  at  their  service. 

The  colonel  asked  his  daughter's  three  lovers  to  breakfast 
on  the  day  of  the  departure.  Then  Canalis  tried  to  execute  a 
scheme  that  had  ripened  in  his  mind  during  the  last  few  days 
— namely,  to  reconquer  Modeste,  and  to  trick  the  Duchess, 
the  master  of  the  horse,  and  la  Briere.  A  graduate  in  diplo- 
macy could  not  remain  bogged  in  such  a  position  as  that  in 
which  he  found  himself.  La  Briere,  on  his  part,  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  bid  Modeste  an  eternal  farewell.  Thus  each 
suitor,  as  he  foresaw  the  conclusion  of  a  struggle  that  had 
been  going  on  for  three  weeks,  proposed  to  put  in  a  last  word, 
like  a  pleader  to  the  judge  before  sentence  is  pronounced. 

After  dinner  the  day  before,  the  colonel  took  his  daughter 
by  the  arm  and  impressed  on  her  the  necessity  for  coming  to 
a  decision. 

"  Our  position  with  the  d'Herouville  family  would  be  in- 
tolerable at  Rosembray.  Do  you  want  to  be  a  duchess?" 
he  asked  Modeste. 

"  No,  father,"  she  replied. 

"  Then  do  you  really  love  Canalis ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,  papa;  a  thousand  times,  no  !  "  said  she, 
with  childish  irritability. 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  261 

The  colonel  looked  at  her  with  a  sort  of  glee. 

"Ah  !  I  have  not  influenced  you,"  cried  the  kind  father. 
"  But  I  may  tell  you  now  that  even  in  Paris  I  had  chosen  my 
son-in-law  when,  on  my  impressing  on  him  that  I  had  no 
fortune,  he  threw  his  arms  around  me,  saying  that  I  had  lifted 
a  hundredweight  from  his  heart." 

"Of  whom  are  you  speaking?"  asked  Modeste,  coloring. 

"  Of  the  man  of  solid  virtues  and  sound  morals,"  said  he, 
mockingly  repeating  the  phrase  which,  on  the  day  after  his 
return,  had  scattered  Modeste's  dreams. 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  thinking  of  him,  papa  !  Leave  me  free  to 
refuse  the  Duke  myself;  I  know  him,  I  'know  how  to  soothe 
him " 

"  Then  your  choice  is  not  made?  " 

"  Not  yet.  I  still  have  to  guess  a  few  syllables  in  the  riddle 
of  my  future ;  but  after  having  had  a  glimpse  of  the  court,  I 
will  tell  you  my  secret  at  Rosembray." 

"You  will  join  the  hunt,  will  you  not?"  said  the  colonel 
to  Ernest,  whom  he  saw  coming  down  the  path  where  he  was 
walking  with  Modeste. 

"  No,  colonel,"  replied  Ernest.  "  I  have  come  to  take  leave 
of  you  and  of  mademoiselle.  I  am  going  back  to  Paris." 

"You  have  no  curiosity?  "  said  Modeste,  interrupting  him, 
and  looking  at  the  bashful  youth. 

"Nothing  is  needed  to  keep  me,"  said  he,  "but  the  ex- 
pression of  a  wish  I  hardly  hope  for." 

"  If  that  is  all,  it  will  give  me  pleasure,  at  any  rate,"  said 
the  colonel,  as  he  went  forward  to  meet  Canalis,  leaving  his 
daughter  alone  for  a  moment  with  the  hapless  Ernest. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  the  young  man,  looking  up  at  her 
with  the  courage  of  despair ;  "  I  have  a  petition  to  make." 

"Tome?" 

"  Let  me  depart  forgiven  !  My  life  can  never  be  happy; 
I  must  endure  the  remorse  of  having  lost  my  happiness,  by  my 
own  fault  no  doubt ;  but  at  least " 


262  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

"Before  we  part  for  ever,"  replied  Modeste,  interrupting 
him  "a  la  Canalis,  "I  want  to  know  one  thing  only;  and 
though  you  once  assumed  a  disguise,  I  do  not  think  that  you 
Will  now  be  such  a  coward  as  to  deceive  me ' ' 

At  the  word  "coward  "  Ernest  turned  pale. 

"  You  are  merciless  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Will  you  be  frank  with  me  ?  " 

"You  have  the  right  to  ask  me  such  a  humiliating  ques- 
tion," said  he,  in  a  voice  made  husky  by  the  violent  beating 
of  his  heart. 

"Well,  then,  did  you  read  my  letters  out  to  Monsieur  de 
Canalis?" 

"  No,  mademoiselle ;  and  though  I  gave  them  to  the  colonel 
to  read,  it  was  only  to  justify  my  love,  by  showing  him  how 
my  affection  had  had  birth,  and  how  genuine  my  efforts  had 
been  to  cure  you  of  your  fancy." 

"  But  what  put  this  ignoble  masquerading  into  your  head  ?  " 
she  asked  with  a  kind  of  impatience. 

La  Briere  related,  in  all  its  details,  the  scene  to  which 
Modeste' s  first  letter  had  given  rise,  and  the  challenge  which 
had  resulted'  from  Ernest's  high  opinion  in  favor  of  a  young 
lady  yearning  for  glory,  as  a  plant  strives  for  its  share  of  the 
sunshine. 

"Enough,"  said  Modeste,  concealing  her  agitation.  "If 
you  have  not  my  heart,  monsieur,  you  have  my  highest  esteem." 

This  simple  speech  made  la  Briere  quite  dizzy.  He  felt 
himself  totter,  and  leaned  against  a  tree,  like  a  man  whose 
senses  are  failing  him.  Modeste,  who  had  walked  away  turned 
her  head  and  hastily  came  back. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  exclaimed,  taking  him  by  the 
hand  to  save  him  from  falling. 

Modeste  felt  his  hand  like  ice,  and  saw  a  face  as  white  as  a 
lily ;  all  the  blood  had  rushed  to  his  heart. 

"  Forgive  me,  mademoiselle,  I  had  fancied  myself  so  de- 
spised  " 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  2g3 

"  Well,"  said  she,  with  haughty  scorn,  "  I  did  not  say  that 
I  loved  you." 

And  she  again  left  la  Briere,  who,  notwithstanding  this  hard 
speech,  thought  he  was  walking  on  the  upper  air.  The  earth 
felt  soft  beneath  his  feet,  the  trees  seemed  decked  with  flowers, 
the  sky  was  rosy  and  the  air  blue,  as  in  the  temples  of  Hymen 
at  the  close  of  a  fairy  drama  that  ends  happily.  In  such  cir- 
cumstances women  are  Janus-like,  they  see  what  is  going  on 
behind  them  without  turning  round ;  and  Modeste  saw  in  her 
lover's  expression  the  unmistakable  symptoms  of  a  love  such 
as  Butscha's,  which  is  beyond  a  doubt  the  ne plus  ultra  of  a 
woman's  desire.  And  the  high  value  attached  by  la  Briere  to 
her  esteem  was  to  Modeste  an  infinitely  sweet  experience. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  Canalis,  leaving  the  colonel  and 
coming  to  meet  Modeste,  "  in  spite  of  the  small  interest  you 
take  in  my  sentiments,  it  is  a  point  of  honor  with  me  to  wipe 
out  a  stain  from  which  I  have  too  long  suffered.  Here  is 
what  Madame  the  Duchess  wrote  me  five  days  after  my  arrival 
here." 

He  made  Modeste  read  the  first  few  lines  of  the  letter,  in 
which  the  Duchess  said  that  she  had  seen  Mongenod,  and 
wished  that  Melchior  should  marry  Modeste ;  then,  having 
torn  off  tl|e  rest,  he  placed  them  in  her  hand. 

"  I  cannot  show  you  the  remainder,"  said  he,  putting  the 
paper  in  his  pocket;  "but  I  intrust  these 'few  lines  to  your 
delicacy,  that  you  may  be  able  to  verify  the  handwriting. 
The  girl  who  could  ascribe  to  me  such  ignoble  sentiments  is 
quite  capable  of  believing  in  some  collusion,  some  stratagem. 
This  may  prove  to  you  how  much  I  care  to  convince  you  that 
the  difference  between  us  was  not  based  on  the  vilest  interest 
on  my  part.  Ah  !  Modeste,"  he  went  on,  with  tears  in  his 
voice,  "  your  poet — Madame  de  Chaulieu's  poet — has  not  less 
poetry  in  his  heart  than  in  his  mind.  You  will  see  the 
Duchess.  Suspend  your  judgment  of  me  until  then. ' '  And  he 
left  Modeste  quite  disconcerted. 


264  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

"On  my  word!  They  are  all  angels,"  she  muttered  to 
herself.  "  All  too  fine  for  marriage  !  Only  the  Duke  is  a 
human  being." 

"  Mademoiselle  Modeste,  this  hunt  makes  me  very  uneasy," 
said  Butscha,  appearing  on  the  scene  with  a  parcel  under  his 
arm.  "I  dreamed  that  your  horse  ran  away  with  you,  so  I 
have  been  to  Rouen  to  get  you  a  Spanish  snaffle ;  I  have  been 
told  that  a  horse  can  never  get  it  between  his  teeth.  I  im- 
plore you  to  use  it ;  I  have  shown  it  to  the  colonel,  who  has 
thanked  me  more  than  the  thing  is  worth." 

"  Poor,  dear  Butscha !  "  cried  Modeste,  touched  to  tears  by 
this  motherly  care. 

Butscha  went  skipping  off  like  a  man  who  has  suddenly  heard 
of  the  death  of  an  old  uncle  leaving  a  fortune. 

"My  dear  father,"  said  Modeste,  on  returning  to  the 
drawing-room,  "I  should  like  very  much  to  have  that  hand- 
some whip ;  supposing  you  were  to  offer  to  exchange  with 
Monsieur  de  la  Briere — that  whip  for  your  picture  by 
Ostade?" 

Modeste  cast  a  side-glance  at  Ernest  while  the  colonel  made 
this  proposal,  standing  in  front  of  the  picture — the  only  thing 
he  possessed  as  a  memorial  of  the  campaigns  he  had  fought 
in  ;  he  had  bought  it  of  a  citizen  of  Ratisbon.  And  seeing 
the  eagerness  with  which  Ernest  rushed  from  the  room,  "  He 
will  attend  the  hunt,"  said  she  to  hdrself. 

Thus,  strange  to  say,  Modeste's  three  lovers  all  went  to 
Rosembray  with  hearts  full  of  hope  and  enraptured  by  her 
adorable  charms. 

Rosembray,  an  estate  recently  purchased  by  the  Due  de 
Verneuil  with  the  money  that  fell  to  his  share  of  the  thousand 
million  francs  voted  to  legitimize  the  sale  of  national  property, 
is  remarkable  for  a  chateau  comparable  for  magnificence  with 
those  of  Mesniere  and  Balleroy.  This  noble  and  imposing 
mansion  is  reached  by  an  immense  avenue  of  ancestral  elms 


MODESTE  MIGNON. 

four  rows  deep,  and  across  a  vast  courtyard  on  a  slope,  like 
that  of  Versailles,  with  a  splendid  iron  screen  and  two  gate 
lodges,  and  surrounded  by  large  orange  trees  in  tubs.  The 
facade  to  this  great  court  displays  two  stories  of'  nineteen 
windows  in  each,  between  two  wings  at  right  angles — tall 
windows  with  small  panes,  set  in  carved  stone  arches,  and 
separated  by  reeded  pilasters.  A  cornice  and  balustrade  screen 
an  Italian  roof,  whence  rise  stone  chimneys  marked  by 
trophies  of  arms,  Rosembray  having  been  built  in  the  reign 
of  Lous  XIV.  by  a  farmer-general  named  Cottin.  The  front 
toward  the  park  differs  from  this,  having  a  centre  block  of 
five  windows  projecting  from  the  main  building,  with  columns 
and  a  noble  pediment.  The  Marigny  family,  to  whom  the 
possessions  of  this  Cottin  came  by  marriage  with  his  sole 
heiress,  had  a  group  representing  Dawn  executed  for  this 
pediment  by  Coysevox.  Below  it  two  genii  support  a  scroll, 
on  which  this  motto  is  ascribed  in  honor  of  the  King,  instead 
of  the  old  family  device  :  Sol  nobis  benignus.  The  great  Louis 
had  made  a  duke  of  the  Marquis  de  Marigny,  one  of  his  most 
insignificant  favorites. 

From  the  top  of  the  semicircular  double-flight  of  steps  there 
is  a  view  over  a  large  lake,  as  long  and  wide  as  the  grand 
canal  of  Versailles,  starting  from  the  bottom  of  a  slope  of 
turf  worthy  of  the  most  English  lawn,  its  banks  dotted  with 
clumps  displaying  the  brightest  autumn  flowers.  Beyond,  on 
each  side,  a  French  formal  parterre  spreads  its  square  beds 
and  paths — pages  written  in  the  most  majestic  style  of  our 
time.  These  two  gardens  are  set  in  a  border  of  wood  and 
shrubbery,  extending  the  whole  length  to  the  extent  of  thirty 
acres,  and  cleared  in  places  in  the  English  fashion  under 
Louis  XV.  The  view  from  the  terrace  is  shut  in  beyond  by 
a  forest  belonging  to  Rosembray,  adjoining  two  demesnes, 
one  belonging  to  the  nation  and  one  to  the  crown.  It  would 
be  hard  to  find  a  more  beautiful  landscape. 

Modeste's   arrival  caused   some  sensation   in  the  avenue 


266  MODESTE   MIGNON. 

when  the  carriage  was  seen  with  the  royal  livery  of  France, 
escorted  by  the  master  of  the  horse,  the  colonel,  Canalis, 
and  la  Briere,  all  riding,  and  preceded  by  an  outrider  in  the 
royal  livery ;  behind  them  came  ten  servants,  among  them 
the  colonel's  negro  and  mulatto,  and  his  elegant  britska,  in 
which  were  the  two  ladies'  maids  and  the  luggage.  The  first 
carriage  was  drawn  by  four  horses  mounted  by  tigers,  dressed 
with  the  spruce  perfection  insisted  on  by  the  master  of  the 
horse — often  better  served  in  such  matters  than  the  King 
himself. 

Modeste,  as  she  drove  up  and  saw  this  minor  Versailles, 
was  dazzled  by  the  magnificence  of  these  great  folk  ;  she  was 
suddenly  conscious  of  having  to  meet  these  famous  duchesses ; 
she  dreaded  seeming  affected,  provincial,  or  parvenu,  lost  her 
head  completely,  and  repented  of  ever  having  wished  for  this 
hunting  party. 

When  the  carriage  stopped,  Modeste  happily  saw  before 
her  an  old  man  in  a  fair,  frizzy  wig,  with  small  curls,  whose 
calm,  smooth,  full  face  wore  a  paternal  smile  and  an  expres- 
sion of  monastic  joviality,  to  which  a  half-downcast  look 
lent  something  like  dignity.  The  Duchess,  a  woman  of  deep 
devotion,  the  only  daughter  of  a  very  wealthy  president  of  the 
supreme  court,  who  had  died  in  1800,  was  the  mother  of  four 
children ;  very  thin  and  erect,  she  bore  some  resemblance  to 
Madame  Latournelle,  .if  imagination  could  be  persuaded  to 
embellish  the  lawyer's  wife  with  the  graces  of  a  noble  lady- 
prioress. 

"Ah  !  how  do  you  do,  dear  Hortense?"  said  Mademoiselle 
d'Herouville,  embracing  the  Duchess  with  all  the  sympathy 
that  was  a  tie  between  these  two  proud  spirits  ;  "allow  me  to 
introduce  to  you  and  to  our  dear  Duke,  Mademoiselle  de  la 
Bastie,  who  is  a  little  angel." 

"We  have  heard  so  much  about  you,  mademoiselle,"  said 
the  Duchess,  "  that  we  have  been  most  eager  to  have  you 
here." 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  2g7 

"  We  can  but  regret  our  lost  time,"  added  the  Due  de 
Verneuil,  bowing  with  gallant  admiration. 

"Monsieur  le  Comte  de  la  Bastie,"  added  the  master  of 
the  horse,  taking  the  colonel  by  the  arm,  and  leading  him  up 
to  the  Duke  and  Duchess  with  a  tinge  of  respect  in  his  tone 
and  manner. 

The  colonel  bowed  to  the  Duchess,  the  Duke  gave  him  his 
hand. 

"  You  are  very  welcorrie,  Monsieur  le  Comte,"  said  Mon- 
sieur de  Verneuil.  "  You  are  the  owner  of  many  treasures," 
he  added,  glancing  at  Modeste. 

The  Duchess  drew  Modeste's  hand  through  her  arm  and 
led  her  into  a  vast  drawing-room,  where  half  a  score  of 
women  were  sitting  in  groups  around  the  fire.  The  men,  led 
by  the  Duke,  went  to  walk  on  the  terrace,  excepting  only 
Canalis,  who  went  in  to  pay  his  respects  to  the  superb 
Eleonore.  She,  seated  before  a  tapestry  frame,  was  giving 
Mademoiselle  de  Verneuil  some  hints  as  to  shading. 

If  Modeste  had  thrust  her  finger  through  with  a  needle 
when  laying  her  hand  on  a  cushion,  she  could  not  have  felt  a 
keener  shock  than  she  received  from  the  icy  glance,  haughty 
and  contemptuous,  that  the  Duchesse  de  Chaulieu  bestowed 
on  her.  From  the  first  instant  she  saw  no  one  but  this 
woman,  and  guessed  whom  she  was.  To  know  to  what  a  pitch 
the  cruelty  can  go  of  those  sweet  creatures  who  are  exalted  by 
our  passion,  women  must  be  'seen  together.  Modeste  might 
have  disarmed  any  one  but  Eleonore  by  her  amazed  and  in- 
voluntary admiration  ;  for  if  she  had  not  known  her  rival's 
age,  she  would  have  taken  her  to  be  a  woman  of  six-and- 
thirty ;  but  there  were  greater  surprises  in  store  for  her  ! 

The  poet  found  himself  flung  against  the  wrath  of  a  great 
lady.  Such  anger  is  the  most  ruthless  Sphinx;  the  face 
is  beaming,  all  else  is  savage.  Even  kings  do  not  know  how 
to  reduce  the  stronghold  of  exquisitely  cold  politeness  which 
a  mistress  can  then  hide  under  steel  armor.  The  lovely 


268  MODESTE   MIGNON. 

woman's  countenance  smiles,  and  at  the  same  time  the  steel 
strikes  home  :  the  hand  is  of  steel,  the  arm,  the  body,  all  is 
steel.  Canalis  tried  to  clutch  this  steel,  but  his  fingers  slipped 
over  it  as  his  words  slipped  from  her  heart.  And  the  gracious 
face,  the  gracious  phrases,  the  gracious  manner  of  the 
Duchess,  concealed  from  every  eye  the  steel  of  her  cold  fury 
— down  to  twenty-five  degrees  below  zero.  The  sight  of 
Modeste's  supreme  beauty,  heightened  by  her  journey,  the 
appearance  of  the  girl,  as  well  dressed  as  Diane  de  Maufrig- 
neuse,  had  fired  the  powder  that  reflection  had  stored  up  in 
E16onore's  brain. 

All  the  women  had  gone  to  the  window  to  see  the  wonder 
of  the  day  step  out  of  the  carriage,  followed  by  her  three 
lovers. 

"  Do  not  let  us  show  that  we  are  so  curious,"  said  Madame 
de  Chaulieu,  struck  to  the  heart  by  Diane's  exclamation, 
''She  is  divine!  Where  can  such  a  creature  have  dropped 
from?" 

And  they  had  fled  back  to  the  drawing-room,  where  each 
one  had  composed  her  countenance,  while  the  Duchesse  de 
Chaulieu  felt  in  her  heart  a  thousand  vipers  all  crying  at  once 
to  be  satisfied. 

Mademoiselle  d'Herouville  remarked  in  an  undertone  and 
with  marked  meaning  to  the  Duchesse  de  Verneuil — 

"  Eldonore  is  not  cordial  in  her  reception  of  her  great 
Melchior." 

"  The  Duchesse  de  Maufrigneuse  thinks  that  there  is  a  cool- 
ness between  them,"  replied  Laure  de  Verneuil  simply.  This 
phrase,  so  often  spoken  in  the  world  of  fashion,  is  full  of 
meaning.  We  feel  in  it  the  icy  polar  blast. 

"Why?"  asked  Modeste  of  the  charming  girl  who  had 
left  the  convent  of  the  sacred  heart  not  more  than  two 
months  since. 

"  The  great  man,"  replied  the  Duchess,  signing  to  her 
daughter  to  be  silent,  "  left  her  for  a  fortnight  without  writ- 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  269 

ing  a  word  to  her,  after  setting  out  for  le  Havre,  and  saying 
that  he  had  gone  for  his  health." 

Modeste  gave  a  little  start  which  struck  Laure,  Helene,  and 
Mademoiselle  d'Herouville. 

"And  meanwhile,"  the  devout  Duchess  went  on,  "she 
was  getting  him  appointed  commander  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor  and  minister  to  Baden." 

"  Oh,  it  is  very  wrong  of  Canalis,  for  he  owes  everything 
to  her,"  said  Mademoiselle  d'Herouville. 

"Why  did  Madame  de  Chaulieu  not  come  to  le  Havre?" 
asked  Modeste  guilelessly  of  Helene. 

"  My  child,"  said  the  Duchesse  de  Verneuil,  "she  would 
let  herself  be  killed  without  speaking  a  word.  Look  at  her. 
What  a  queen  !  With  her  head  on  the  block  she  would  still 
smile,  like  Mary  Stuart — indeed,  our  handsome  Eldonore  has 
the  same  blood  in  her  veins." 

"  And  she  did  not  write  to  him  ?  "  said  Modeste. 

"  Diane  told  me,"  replied  the  Duchess,  prompted  to  fur- 
ther confidences  by  an  elbow  nudge  from  Mademoiselle 
d'Herouville,  "that  she  had  sent  a  very  cutting  answer  to 
the  first  letter  Canalis  wrote  to  her  about  ten  days  ago." 

This  statement  made  Modeste  color  with  shame  for  Canalis; 
she  longed  not  to  crush  him  under  her  feet,  but  to  revenge 
herself  by  a  piece  of  mischief  more  cruel  than  a  poniard 
thrust.  She  looked  proudly  at  Madame  de  Chaulieu.  That 
glance  was  gilded  with  eight  millions  of  francs. 

"  Monsieur  Melchior  !  "  said  she. 

All  the  women  looked  up,  first  at  the  Duchess,  who  was 
talking  to  Canalis  over  the  work-frame,  then  at  this  young 
girl,  so  ill-bred  as  to  disturb  two  lovers  who  were  settling  their 
quarrel — a  thing  which  is  never  done  in  any  rank  of  life. 

Diane  de  Maufrigneuse  gave  her  head  a  little  toss,  as  much 
as  to  say,  "  The  child  is  in  her  rights." 

Finally,  the  twelve  women  smiled  at  each  other,  for  they 
were  all  jealous  of  a  woman  of  fifty-six  who  was  still  hand- 


270  MODESTE  M1GNON. 

some  enough  to  dip  her  hand  in  the  common  treasury  and 
steal  a  young  woman's  share.  Melchior  glanced  at  Modeste 
with  feverish  irritability,  the  hasty  look  of  a  master  to  a  ser- 
vant, while  the  Duchess  bent  her  head  with  the  air  of  a  lioness 
interrupted  at  her  meal ;  her  eyes,  fixed  on  the  canvas,  shot 
flames  of  fire,  almost  red-hot,  at  the  poet  while  she  sifted  his 
very  soul  with  her  epigrams,  for  each  sentence  was  a  ven- 
geance for  a  triple  injury. 

"  Monsieur  Melchior  !  "  repeated  Modeste,  in  a  voice  that 
asserted  its  right  to  be  heard. 

"  What  is  it,  mademoiselle  ?  "  asked  the  poet. 

He  was  obliged  to  rise,  but  he  stood  still  half-way  between 
the  work-frame,  which  was  near  the  window,  and  the  fire- 
place, by  which  Modeste  was  sitting  on  the  Duchess  de  Ver- 
neuil's  sofa.  What  cruel  reflections  were  forced  on  the  am- 
bitious man  when  he  met  Eleonore's  steady  eye.  If  he  should 
obey  Modeste,  all  was  over  for  ever  between  the  poet  and  his 
protectress.  If  he  paid  no  heed  to  the  girl,  it  would  be  an 
avowal  of  his  serfdom,  he  would  lose  the  advantages  gained 
by  five-and-twenty  days  of  meanness,  and  fail  in  the  simplest 
rules  of  gentlemanly  politeness.  The  greater  the  folly,  the 
more  imperatively  the  Duchess  insisted  on  it.  Modeste's 
beauty  and  fortune,  set  in  the  opposite  scale  to  Eleonore's 
influence  and  established  rights,  made  this  hesitancy  between 
the  man  and  his  honor  as  terrible  to  watch  as  the  peril  of  a 
matadore  in  the  ring.  A  man  never  knows  such  frightful  pal- 
pitations, as  those  that  seemed  to  threaten  Canalis  with  an 
aneurism,  anywhere  but  in  front  of  the  gaming-table  where 
his  fortune  or  his  ruin  is  settled  within  five  minutes. 

"  Mademoiselle  d'Herouville  made  me  get  out  of  the  car- 
riage in  such  a  hurry,"  said  Modeste  to  Canalis,  "  that  I 
dropped  my  handkerchief — 

Canalis  gave  a  highly  significant  shrug. 

"And,"  she  went  on,  in  spite  of  this  impatient  gesture,  "  I 
had,  tied  to  it,  the  key  of  a  blotting-case,  containing  an  im- 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  L.:i 

portant  fragment  of  a  letter;  will  you  be  good  enough,  Mel- 
chior,  to  ask  for  it? " 

Between  an  angel  and  a  tigress,  equally  irate,  Canalis,  who 
had  turned  pale,  hesitated  no  longer ;  the  tigress  seemed  the 
less  dangerous.  He  was  on  the  point  of  committing  himself 
when  la  Briere  appeared  in  the  doorway,  seeming  to  Canalis 
something  like  the  archangel  Michael  descended  from  heaven. 

"Here,  Ernest,  Mademoiselle  de  la  Bastie  wants  you," 
said  the  poet,  hastily  retreating  to  his  chair  by  the  work- 
frame. 

Ernest,  on  his  part,  went  at  once  to  Modeste  without  bow- 
ing to  any  one  else ;  he  saw  her  alone,  received  her  instruc- 
tions with  visible  joy,  and  ran  off  with  the  unconfessed  appro- 
bation of  every  woman  present. 

"What  a  position  for  a  poet !"  said  Modeste  to  Helene, 
pointing  to  the  worsted  work  at  which  the  Duchess  was 
stitching  furiously. 

"  If  you  speak  to  her,  if  you  once  look  at  her,  all  is  ended," 
said  El6onore  to  Melchior  in  a  low  tone,  for  his  middle  course 
had  not  satisfied  her.  "  And,  mind,  when  I  am  absent  I 
shall  leave  other  eyes  to  watch  you." 

As  she  spoke,  Madame  de  Chaulieu,  a  woman  of  medium 
height,  but  rather  too  fat — as  all  women  are  who  are  still 
handsome  when  past  fifty — rose,  walked  toward  the  group 
with  which  Diane  de  Maufrigneuse  was  sitting,  stepping  out 
with  small  feet  as  firm  and  light  as  a  fawn's.  Under  her  full 
form  the  exquisite  refinement  was  conspicuous  with  which 
women  of  that  type  are  gifted,  and  which  gives  them  that 
vigorous  nervous  system  that  controls  and  animates  the  devel- 
opment of  the  flesh.  It  was  impossible  otherwise  to  account 
for  her  light  step,  which  was  amazingly  dignified.  Only 
those  women  whose  quarterings  of  nobility  date  back  to 
Noah,  like  Eleonore's,  know  how  to  be  majestic  in  spite  of 
being  as  large  as  a  farmer's  wife.  A  philosopher  might, 
perhaps,  have  pitied  Philoxene,  while  admiring  the  happy 


272  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

arrangement  of  the  bodice  and  the  careful  details  of  a  morn- 
ing dress  worn  with  the  elegance  of  a  queen  and  the  ease  of  a 
girl.  Boldly  wearing  her  own  abundant  and  undyed  hair, 
plaited  on  the  top  of  her  head  in  a  coronet  like  a  tower, 
Eleonore  proudly  displayed  her  white  neck,  her  finely  shaped 
bust  and  shoulders,  her  dazzling  bare  arms,  ending  in  hands 
famous  for  their  beauty.  Modeste,  like  all  the  Duchess' 
rivals,  saw  in  her  one  of  those  women  of  whom  the  others 
say,  "  She  is  past  mistress  of  us  all !  " 

In  fact,  every  one  recognized  her  as  one  of  those  few  great 
ladies  who  are  now  become  so  rare  in  France.  Any  attempt  to 
describe  how  majestic  was  the  carriage  of  her  head,  how  re- 
fined and  delicate  this  or  that  curve  of  her  neck,  what  har- 
mony there  was  in  her  movements,  what  dignity  in  her  mien, 
what  nobleness  in  the  perfect  agreement  of  every  detail  with 
the  whole  result  in  the  little  arts  that  are  a  second  nature,  and 
make  a  woman  holy  and  supreme — this  would  be  to  try  to 
analyze  the  sublime.  We  delight  in  such  poetry,  as  in  that 
of  Paganini,  without  seeking  the  means,  for  the  cause  is  a  soul 
making  itself  visible. 

The  Duchess  bowed,  saluting  Helene  and  her  aunt ;  then 
she  said  to  Diane  in  a  clear,  bright  voice  without  a  trace  of 
emotion — 

"  Is  it  not  time  to  dress,  Duchess?  " 

And  she  swept  out  of  the  room,  accompanied  by  her 
daughter-in-law  and  Mademoiselle  d'Herouville,  each  giving 
her  an  arm.  She  was  speaking  in  a  low  voice  as  she  went 
away  with  the  old  maid,  who  pressed  her  to  her  heart,  saying, 
"  You  are  quite  charming  !  "  which  was  as  much  as  to  say,  "  I 
am  wholly  yours  in  return  for  the  service  you  have  just 
done  us." 

Mademoiselle  d'Herouville  returned  to  the  drawing-room  to 
play  her  part  as  spy,  and  her  first  glance  told  Canalis  that  the 
Duchess'  last  words  were  no  vain  threat.  The  apprentice  to 
diplomacy  felt  he  knew  too  little  of  this  minor  science  for  so 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  273 

severe  a  struggle,  and  his  wit  served  him  at  any  rate  so  far  as 
to  enable  him  to  assume  a  straightforward,  if  not  a  dignified, 
attitude.  When  Ernest  returned  with  Modeste's  handker- 
chief, he  took  him  by  the  arm  and  led  him  out  on  the  lawn. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  he,  ''I  am,  of  all  men,  not  the 
most  unhappy,  but  the  most  ridiculous.  So  I  have  recourse  to 
you  to  help  me  out  of  the  wasps'  nest  I  have  gotten  into.  Mod- 
este  is  a  demon ;  she  saw  my  embarrassment,  she  mocks  at  it ; 
she  has  just  spoken  to  me  of  two  line's  of  a  letter  of  Madame 
de  Chaulieu's  that  I  was  fool  enough  to  trust  her  with.  If 
she  were  to  show  them,  I  could  never  make  it  up  again  with 
Eleonore.  So,  pray,  at  once  ask  Modeste  for  that  paper,  and 
tell  her  from  me  that  I  have  no  views — no  pretensions  to  her 
hand ;  I  rely  on  her  delicacy,  on  her  honesty  as  a  lady,  to 
behave  to  me  as  though  we  had  never  met ;  I  entreat  her  not 
to  speak  to  me  ;  I  beseech  her  to  vouchsafe  to  be  implacable, 
though  I  dare  not  hope  that  her  spite  will  move  her  to  a  sort 

of  jealous  wrath  that  would  serve  my  ends  to  a  miracle 

Go,  I  will  wait  here." 

On  re-entering  the  room,  Ernest  de  la  Briere  saw  there  a 
young  officer  of  Havre's  company  of  the  Guards,  the  Vicomte 
de  Serizy,  who  had  just  arrived  from  Rosny  to  announce  that 
MADAME  was  obliged  to  be  present  at  the  opening  of  the 
session.  This  constitutional  solemnity  was,  as  is  well  known, 
a  very  important  function.  Charles  X.  pronounced  a  speech 
in  the  presence  of  his  whole  family,  the  Dauphiness  and  MA- 
DAME being  present  in  their  seats.  The  choice  of  the  envoy 
charged  with  expressing  the  Princess'  regrets  was  a  compli- 
ment to  Diane.  She  was  supposed  to  be  the  immediate  object 
of  this  fascinating  youth's  adoration ;  he  was  the  son  of  a 
minister  of  state,  gentleman-in-waiting,  and  hopeful  of  high 
destinies,  as  being  an  only  son  and  heir  to  an  immense  for- 
tune. The  Duchesse  de  Maufrigneuse,  however,  only  accepted 
the  Viscount's  attentions  in  order  to  throw  light  on  the  age  of 
Madame  de  Serizy,  who,  according  to  the  chronicle  repeated 
18 


274  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

behind  fans,  had  won  from  her  the  heart  of  handsome  Lucien 
de  Rubempre. 

"  You,  I  hope,  will  do  us  the  pleasure  of  remaining  at 
Rosembray,"  said  the  severe  Duchess  to  the  young  man. 

While  keeping  her  ears  open  to  evil-speaking,  the  pious 
lady  shut  her  eyes  to  the  peccadilloes  of  her  guests,  who  were 
carefully  paired  by  the  Duke ;  for  no  one  knows  what  such 
excellent  women  will  tolerate  on  the  plea  of  bringing  a  lost 
sheep  back  to  the  fold  by  treating  it  with  indulgence. 

"  We  reckoned  without  the  constitutional  government," 
said  the  Due  d'Herouville,  "and  Rosembray  loses  a  great 
honor,  Madame  la  Duchesse " 

"We  shall  feel  all  the  more  at  our  ease,"  observed  a  tall, 
lean  old  man  of  about  seventy-five,  dressed  in  blue  cloth,  and 
keeping  on  his  hunting  cap  by  leave  of  the  ladies. 

This  personage,  who  was  very  like  the  Due  de  Bourbon, 
was  no  less  a  man  than  the  Prince  de  Cadignan,  the  master 
of  the  hounds,  and  also  one  of  the  last  of  the  French  Great 
Lords. 

Just  as  la  Briere  was  about  to  slip  behind  the  sofa  to  beg  a 
minute's  speech  with  Modeste,  a  man  of  about  eight  and 
thirty  came  in,  short,  fat,  and  common  looking. 

"My  son,  the  Prince  de  Loudon,"  said  the  Duchesse  de 
Verneuil  to  Modeste,  who  could  not  control  an  expression  of 
amazement  on  her  youthful  features  as  she  saw  the  man  who 
now  bore  the  name  which  the  general  of  the  Vendee  Cavalry 
had  made  so  famous  by  his  daring  and  by  his  execution. 

The  present  Due  de  Verneuil  was  the  third  son  taken  by 
his  father  into  exile,  and  the  only  survivor  of  four  children. 

"  Gaspard,"  said  the  Duchess,  calling  her  son  to  her. 
The  Prince  obeyed  his  mother,  who  went  on  as  she  intro- 
duced Modeste — 

"  Mademoiselle  de  la  Bastie,  my  dear." 

The  heir  presumptive,  whose  marriage  to  Desplein's  only 
daughter  was  a  settled  thing,  bowed  to  the  girl  without 


MODESTE  M1GNON.  275 

seeming  struck  by  her  beauty,  as  his  father  had  been.  Mod- 
este  thus  had  an  opportunity  of  comparing  the  young  men  of 
to-day  with  the  old  men  of  the  past ;  for  the  old  Prince  de 
Cadignan  had  already  made  her  two  or  three  very  pretty 
speeches,  proving  that  he  was  not  less  devoted  to  women  than 
to  royalty.  The  Due  de  Rhetore,  Madame  de  Chaulieu's 
eldest  son,  noted  for  the  style  which  combines  impertinence 
with  easy  freedom,  had,  like  the  Prince  de  Loudon,  treated 
Modeste  almost  cavalierly. 

The  reason  of  this  contrast  between  the  sons  and  the  fathers 
may,  perhaps,  lie  in  the  fact  that  the  heirs  no  longer  feel 
themselves  to  be  objects  of  importance,  as  their  ancestors 
were,  and  excuse  themselves  from  the  duties  of  power,  since 
they  no  longer  have  anything  but  its  shadow.  The  fathers 
still  have  the  fine  manners  inherent  in  their  vanished  grandeur, 
like  mountains  gilded  by  the  sunshine,  when  all  around  them 
is  in  darkness. 

At  last  Ernest  succeeded  in  saying  two  words  to  Modeste, 
who  arose. 

"  My  little  beauty  !  "  said  the  Duchess,  as  she  pulled  a  bell, 
thinking  that  Modeste  was  going  to  change  her  dress,  "  you 
shall  be  taken  to  your  rooms." 

Ernest  went  with  Modeste  to  the  foot  of  the  great  staircase 
to  make  the  unhappy  Melchior's  request,  and  he  tried  to 
touch  her  by  describing  the  poet's  miseries. 

"  He  loves  her,  you  see  !  He  is  a  captive  who  thought  he 
could  break  his  chains." 

"  Love  !  In  a  man  who  calculates  everything  so  closely? " 
retorted  Modeste. 

"  Mademoiselle,  you  are  at  the  beginning  of  your  life ;  you 
do  not  know  its  narrow  places.  Every  sort  of  inconsistency 
must  be  forgiven  to  a  man  who  places  himself  under  the 
dominion  of  a  woman  older  than  himself,  for  he  is  not  respon- 
sible. Consider  how  many  sacrifices  Canalis  has  offered  to 
that  divinity  !  how  he  has  sown  too  much  seed  to  scorn  the 


276  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

harvest ;  the  Duchess  represents  to  him  ten  years  of  devotion 
and  of  happiness.  You  had  made  the  poet  forget  everything, 
for,  unhappily,  he  has  more  vanity  than  pride ;  he  knew  not 
what  he  was  losing  till  he  saw  Madame  de  Chaulieu  again. 
If  you  knew  Canalis,  you  would  help  him.  He  is  a  mere 
child,  and  is  spoiling  his  life  for  ever.  You  say  he  calculates 
everything,  but  he  calculates  very  badly,  like  all  poets  indeed 
— creatures  of  impulse,  full  of  childishness,  dazzled,  like  chil- 
dren, by  all  that  shines,  and  running  after  it !  He  has  been 
fond  of  horses,  of  pictures ;  he  has  yearned  for  glory  ;  he  sells 
his  pictures  to  get  armor  and  furniture  of  the  style  of  the 
Renaissance  and  of  Louis  XV.;  he  now  has  a  grudge  against 
the  government.  Admit  that  his  whims  are  on  a  grand 
scale!  " 

"  That  will  do,"  said  Modeste.  "  Come,"  she  added,  as 
she  saw  her  father,  and  beckoned  to  him  to  ask  him  to  accom- 
pany her,  "  I  will  give  you  that  scrap  of  paper;  you  can  take 
it  to  the  great  man,  and  assure  him  of  my  entire  consent  to 
all  he  wishes,  but  on  one  condition,  I  beg  you  to  give  him 
my  best  thanks  for  the  pleasure  I  have  enjoyed  in  seeing  him 
perform  for  my  sole  benefit  one  of  the  finest  pieces  of  the 
German  theatre.  I  know  now  that  Goethe's  chef-d } ceuvre  is 
neither  'Faust'  nor  '  Egmont '  " — and,  as  Ernest  looked  at 
the  sprightly  girl  with  a  puzzled  expression — "  it  is  '  Torquato 
Tasso,'  "  she  added.  "Desire  Monsieur  Canalis  to  read  it 
once  more,"  she  went  on,  smiling.  "I  particularly  desire 
that  you  will  repeat  this  to  your  friend  word  for  word,  for  it 
is  not  an  epigram ;  it  is  the  justification  of  his  conduct — with 
this  difference,  that  I  hope  he  will  become  quite  sane,  thanks 
to  his  Eleonore's  folly." 

The  Duchess'  head  waiting-maid  led  Modeste  and  her 
father  to  their  rooms,  where  Franchise  Cochet  had  already 
arranged  everything.  Their  choice  elegance  surprised  the 
colonel,  and  Franchise  told  him  that  there  were  thirty  guest- 
chambers  in  the  same  style  in  the  chateau. 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  277 

"  This  is  my  idea  of  a  country-house,"  said  Modeste. 

"The  Comte  de  la  Bastie  will  have  such  another  built  for 
you,"  replied  the  colonel. 

"Here,  monsieur,"  said  Modeste,  handing  the  scrap  of 
paper  to  Ernest,  "go  and  reassure  our  friend." 

The  words  "our  friend"  struck  the  young  man.  He 
looked  at  Modeste  to  see  if  there  were  seriously  some  com- 
munity of  sentiment  such  as  she  seemed  to  acknowledge;  and 
the  girl,  understanding  the  implied  question,  added — 

"  Well,  go  ;  your  friend  is  waiting." 

La  Briere  colored  violently,  and  went,  in  a  state  of  doubt, 
anxiety,  and  disturbance  more  terrible  than  despair.  The 
approach  to  happiness  is  to  true  lovers  very  like  what  the 
poetry  of  Catholicism  has  called  the  straits  of  paradise,  to  ex- 
press a  dark,  difficult,  and  narrow  way,  echoing  with  the  last 
cries  of  supreme  anguish. 

An  hour  later  the  distinguished  party  had  all  met  again  in 
the  drawing-room,  some  playing  at  whist,  others  chatting,  the 
women  busy  with  fancy-work,  while  awaiting  the  dinner-hour. 
The  master  of  the  hounds  led  Monsieur  Mignon  to  talk  of 
China,  of  his  campaigns,  of  the  great  Provencal  families  of 
Portenduere,  1'Estorade,  and  Maucombe;  and  he  remon- 
strated with  him  on  not  asking  for  employment,  assuring  him 
that  nothing  would  be  easier  than  to  obtain  a  post  in  the 
Guards  with'  his  full  rank  as  colonel. 

"A  man  of  your  birth  and  fortune  can  never  class  himself 
with  the  present  opposition,"  said  the  Prince  with  a  smile. 

This  aristocratic  society  pleased  Modeste;  and  not  only 
that,  during  her  visit  she  gained  a  perfection  of  manner  which, 
but  for  this  revelation,  she  would  never. in  her  life  have  ac- 
quired. If  you  show  a  clock  to  a  natural  mechanic,  it  is 
always  enough  to  reveal  to  him  what  mechanism  means ;  the 
germs  within  him  are  at  once  developed.  In  the  same  way, 
Modeste  intuitively  assimilated  everything  that  gave  distinc- 
tion to  the  Duchesses  de  Maufrigneuse  and  de  Chaulieu.  To 


278  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

her  each  detail  was  a  lesson,  where  a  commonplace  woman 
would  have  fallen  into  absurdity  by  imitating  mere  manners. 
A  girl  of  good  birth,  well  informed,  with  the  instincts  of 
Modeste,  fell  naturally  into  the  right  key,  and  discerned  the 
differences  which  divide  the  aristocratic  from  the  middle-class, 
and  provincial  life  from  that  of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain; 
she  caught  the  almost  imperceptible  shades;  in  short,  she 
recognized  the  grace  of  a  really  fine  lady,  and  did  not  despair 
of  acquiring  it. 

In  the  midst  of  this  Olympus  she  saw  that  her  father  and  la 
Briere  were  infinitely  superior  to  Canalis.  The  great  poet, 
abdicating  his  real  and  indisputable  power,  that  of  the  intellect, 
was  nothing  but  a  master  of  appeals,  eager  to  become  a  min- 
ister, anxious  for  the  collar  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  and  obliged 
to  subserve  every  constellation.  Ernest  de  la  Briere,  devoid 
of  ambition,  was  'simply  himself;  while  Melchior,  eating 
humble  pie,  to  use  a  vulgar  phrase,  paid  court  to  the  Prince 
de  Loudon,  the  Due  de  Rhetore,  the  Vicomte  de  S6rizy,  the 
Due  de  Maufrigneuse,  as  though  he  had  no  liberty  of  speech 
like  Colonel  Mignon  the  Comte  de  la  Bastie,  proud  of  his  ser- 
vices and  of  the  Emperor  Napoleon's  esteem.  Modeste  saw  the 
continued  preoccupation  of  a  wit  seeking  a  point  to  raise  a 
laugh,  a  brilliant  remark  to  surprise,  or  a  compliment  to  flatter 
the  high  and  mighty  personages,  on  whose  level  he  aimed  at 
keeping  himself.  In  short,  here  the  peacock  shed  his  glitter- 
ing plumes. 

In  the  course  of  the  evening  Modeste  went  to  sit  with  the 
master  of  the  horse  in  a  recess  of  the  drawing-room  ;  she  took 
him  there  to  put  an  end  to  a  struggle  she  could  no  longer 
encourage  without  lowering  herself  in  her  own  eyes. 

"  Monsieur  le  Due,"  she  began,  "  if  you  knew  me  well, 
you  would  know  how  deeply  I  am  touched  by  your  attentions. 
It  is  precisely  the  high  esteem  I  have  for  your  character,  the 
friendship  inspired  by  such  a  nature  as  yours,  which  makes 
me  anxious  not  to  inflict  the  smallest  wound  on  your  self- 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  279 

respect.  Before  you  came  to  le  Havre  I  loved  sincerely, 
deeply,  and  for  ever  a  man  who  is  worthy  to  be  loved,  and 
from  whom  my  affection  is  still  a  secret ;  but  I  may  tell  you— 
and  in  this  I  am  more  sincere  than  most  girls— that,  if  I  had 
not  been  bound  by  this  voluntary  engagement,  you  would 
have  been  my  choice,  so  many  and  so  great  are  the  good 
qualities  I  have  found  in  you.  A  few  words  dropped  by  your 
sister  and  aunt  compel  me  to  say  this.  If  you  think  it  neces- 
sary, by  to-morrow,  before  the  hunt,  my  mother  shall  recall 
me  home  under  the  excuse  of  serious  indisposition.  I  will 
not  be  present  without  your  consent  at  an  entertainment  ar- 
ranged by  your  kind  care,  where,  if  my  secret  should  escape 
me,  I  might  aggrieve  you  by  an  insult  to  your  legitimate  pre- 
tensions. 

'"Why  did  I  come?'  you  may  ask.  I  might  have  de- 
clined. Be  so  generous  as  not  to  make  a  crime  of  an  inevi- 
table curiosity.  This  is  not  the  most  delicate  part  of  what 
I  have  to  communicate.  You  have  firmer  friends  than  you 
know  of  in  my  father  and  me ;  and  as  my  fortune  was  the 
prime  motive  in  your  mind  when  you  came  to  seek  me,  with- 
out wishing  to  treat  it  as  a  solace  to  the  grief  your  gallantry 
requires  of  you,  I  may  tell  you  that  my  father  is  giving  his 
mind  to  the  matter  of  the  Herouville  lands.  His  friend  Du- 
may  thinks  the  scheme  feasible,  and  has  been  feeling  his  way 
to  the  formation  of  a  company.  Gobenheim,  Dumay,  and 
my  father  are  each  ready  with  fifteen  hundred  thousand  francs, 
and  undertake  to  collect  the  remainder  by  the  confidence  they 
will  inspire  in  the  minds  of  capitalists  by  taking  substantial 
interest  in  the  business. 

"  Though  I  may  not  have  the  honor  of  being  the  Duchesse 
d' Herouville,  I  am  almost  certain  of  putting  you  in  the  posi- 
tion to  choose  her  one  day  with  perfect  freedom  in  the  exalted 
sphere  to  which  she  belongs.  Oh,  let  me  finish,"  said  she, 
at  a  gesture  of  the  Duke's. 

" It  is  easy  to  see  from  my  brother's  agitation,"  said  Made- 


280  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

moiselle  d'Herouville  to  her  niece,  "  that  you  have  gained  a 
sister." 

"  Monsieur  le  Due,  I  decided  on  this  on  the  day  of  our 
first  ride  together,  when  I  heard  you  lamenting  your  position. 
This  is  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you ;  on  that  day  my  fate  was 
sealed.  If  you  have  not  won  a  wife,  you  have,  at  any  rate, 
found  friends  at  Ingouville,  if,  indeed,  you  will  accept  us  as 
friends." 

This  little  speech  which  Modeste  had  prepared  was  uttered 
with  such  soul-felt  charm  that  tears  rose  to  the  Duke's  eyes. 
He  seized  Modeste's  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"  Remain  here  for  the  hunt,"  said  he.  "  My  small  merit 
has  accustomed  me  to  such  refusals.  But  while  I  accept  your 
friendship  and  the  colonel's,  allow  me  to  assure  myself,  by 
inquiring  of  the  most  competent  experts,  that  the  reclaiming 
of  the  marsh-lands  of  Herouville  will  involve  the  company  of 
which  you  speak  in  no  risks,  but  may  bring  in  some  profits, 
before  I  accept  the  liberality  of  your  friends. 

"You  are  a  noble  girl,  and  though  it  breaks  my  heart  to 
be  no  more  than  your  friend,  I  shall  glory  in  the  title  and 
prove  it  to  you  whenever  and  wherever  I  find  occasion." 

"  At  any  rate,  Monsieur  le  Due,  let  us  keep  the  secret  to 
ourselves.  My  choice  will  not  be  announced,  unless  I  am 
greatly  mistaken,  till  my  mother  is  completely  cured ;  for  it 
is  my  desire  that  my  plighted  husband  and  I  should  be  blessed 
with  her  first  glances." 

"Ladies,"  said  the  Prince  de  Cadignan  at  the  moment 
when  all  were  going  to  bed,  "  I  remember  that  several  of  you 
proposed  to  follow  the  hunt  with  us  to-morrow  ;  now  I  think 
it  my  duty  to  inform  you  that,  if  you  are  bent  on  being 
Dianas,  you  must  rise  with  the  dawn.  The  meet  is  fixed  for 
half-past  eight.  I  have  often  in  the  course  of  my  life  seen 
women  display  greater  courage  than  men,  but  only  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  you  will  all  need  a  certain  modicum  of  deter- 
mination to  remain  on  horseback  for  a  whole  day  excepting 


MODESTE  MIGNON.  2gi 

during  the  halt  called  for  luncheon — a  mere  snack,  as  beseems 
sportsmen  and  sportswomen.  Are  you  all  still  resolved  to 
prove  yourselves  gallant  horsewomen?  " 

"  I,  Prince,  cannot  help  myself,"  said  Modeste  slily. 

"  I  can  answer  for  myself,"  said  the  Duchesse  de  Chaulieu. 

"I  know  my  daughter  Diane  ;  she  is  worthy  of  her  name," 
replied  the  Prince.  "  Well,  then,  you  are  all  primed  for  the 
sport.  However,  for  the  sake  of  Madame  and  Mademoiselle 
de  Verneuil,  who  remain  at  home,  I  shall  do  my  best  to  turn 
the  stag  to  the  further  end  of  the  pool." 

"  Do  not  be  uneasy,  ladies,  the  hunters'  snack  will  be 
served  under  a  splendid  marquee,"  said  the  Prince  de  Loudon 
when  the  master  of  the  hounds  had  left  the  room. 

Next  morning  at  daybreak  everything  promised  fine  weather. 
The  sky,  lightly  veiled  with  gray  mist,  showed  through  it  here 
and  there  in  patches  of  pure  blue,  and  it  would  be  entirely 
cleared  before  noon  by  a  northwest  breeze,  which  was  already 
sweeping  up  some  little,  fleecy  clouds.  As  they  left  the 
chateau,  the  master  of  the  hounds,  the  Prince  de  Loudon, 
and  the  Due  de  Rhetore,  who,  having  no  ladies  under  their 
care,  started  first  for  the  meet,  saw  the  chimneys  of  the  house 
piercing  through  the  veil-mist  in  white  masses  against  the 
russet  foliage,  which  the  trees  in  Normandy  never  lose  till 
quite  the  end  of  a  fine  autumn. 

"  The  ladies  are  in  luck,"  said  the  Prince  to  the  Due  de 
Rhetore. 

"  Oh,  in  spite  of  their  bravado  last  night,  I  fancy  they  will 
leave  us  to  hunt  without  them,"  replied  the  Due  de  Verneuil. 

"Yes,  if  they  have  not  each  a  gentleman-in-waiting,"  re- 
torted the  Duke. 

At  this  moment  these  determined  sportsmen— for  the  Prince 
de  Loudon  and  the  Due  de  RhetorS  are  of  the  race  of 
Nimrod,  and  supposed  to  be  the  finest  shots  of  the  Faubourg 
Saint-Germain—heard  the  noise  of  an  altercation,  and  rode 
forward  at  a  gallop  to  the  clearing  appointed  for  the  meet, 


282  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

at  one  of  the  openings  into  the  forest  of  Rosembray,  and 
remarkable  for  a  mossy  knoll.  This  was  the  subject  of  the 
quarrel :  The  Prince  de  Loudon,  bitten  by  Anglomania,  had 
placed  at  the  Due  de  Verneuil's  orders  the  whole  of  his  stable 
and  kennel,  in  the  English  style  throughout.  On  one  side  of 
the  clearing  stood  a  young  Englishman,  short,  fair,  insolent- 
looking  and  cool,  speaking  French  after  a  fashion,  and 
dressed  with  the  neatness  that  characterizes  Englishmen  even 
of  the  lowest  class.  John  Barry  had  a  tunic-coat  of  scarlet 
cloth  belted  round  the  waist,  silver  buttons  with  the  arms  of 
Verneuil,  white  doeskin  breeches,  top-boots,  a  striped  waist- 
coat, and  a  black  velvet  collar  and  cap.  In  his  right  hand  he 
held  a  hunting-crop,  and  in  his  left,  hanging  by  a  silk  cord, 
was  a  brass  horn.  This  chief  huntsman  had  with  him  two 
large  thoroughbred  hounds,  pure  fox-hounds  with  white  coats 
spotted  with  tan,  high  on  their  legs,  with  keen  noses,  small 
heads,  and  short  ears,  high  up.  This  man,  one  of  the  most 
famous  huntsmen  of  the  country  whence  the  Prince  had  sent 
for  him  at  great  expense,  ruled  over  fifteen  hunters  and  sixty 
English-bred  dogs,  which  annually  cost  the  Due  de  Verneuil 
enormous  sums ;  though  he  cared  little  for  sport,  he  indulged 
his  son  in  this  truly  royal  taste.  The  subordinates,  men  and 
horses,  stood  some  little  way  off  and  kept  perfect  silence. 

Now  on  arriving  on  the  ground,  John  found  there  three 
huntsmen  with  three  packs  of  the  King's  hounds  that  had 
arrived  before  him  in  carts ;  the  Prince  de  Cadignan's  three 
best  men,  whose  figures,  both  in  character  and  costumes,  were 
a  perfect  contrast  with  the  representative  of  insolent  Albion. 
These,  the  Prince's  favorites,  all  wearing  three-cornered 
cocked  hats,  very  low  and  flat,  beneath  which  grinned  tanned, 
wrinkled,  weather-beaten  faces,  lighted  up  as  it  were  by  their 
twinkling  eyes,  were  curiously  dry,  lean,  and  sinewy  men, 
burnt  up  with  the  passion  for  sport.  Each  was  provided  with 
a  large  bugle  hung  about  with  green  worsted  cord  that  left 
nothing  visible  but  the  bell  of  the  trumpet ;  they  kept  their 


MODESTE  MIGNON. 

dogs  in  order  by  the  eye  and  voice.  The  noble  brutes,  all 
splashed  with  liver-color  and  black,  each  with  his  individual 
expression,  as  distinct  as  Napoleon's  soldiers,  formed  a  posse 
of  subjects  more  faithful  than  those  whom  the  King  was  at 
that  moment  addressing — their  eyes  lighting  up  at  the  slightest 
sound  with  a  spark  that  glittered  like  a  diamond — this  one 
from  Poitou,  short  in  the  loins,  broad-shouldered,  low  on  the 
ground,  long-eared ;  that  one  an  English  dog,  white,  slim  in 
the  belly,  with  short  ears,  and  made  for  coursing ;  all  the 
young  hounds  eager  to  give  tongue,  while  their  elders,  seamed 
with  scars,  lay  quiet,  at  full  length,  their  heads  resting  on 
their  fore-paws,  and  listening  on  the  ground  like  wild  men  of 
the  woods. 

On  seeing  the  English  contingent  the  dogs  and  the  King's 
men  looked  at  each  other,  asking  without  saying  a  word — 

"  Are  we  not  to  hunt  by  ourselves?  Is  not  this  a  slur  on 
his  majesty's  royal  hunt  ?  " 

After  beginning  with  some  banter,  the  squabble  had  grown 
warm  between  Monsieur  Jacquin  la  Roulie,  the  old  chief 
huntsman  of  the  French  force,  and  John  Barry,  the  young 
Briton. 

While  still  at  some  distance  the  princes  guessed  what  had 
given  rise  to  the  quarrel,  and  the  master  of  the  hounds,  put- 
ting spurs  to  his  horse,  ended  the  matter  by  asking  in  a  com- 
manding tone — 

"  Who  beat  the  wood  ?  " 

"  I,  monseigneur,"  said  the  Englishman. 

"Very  good,"  said  the  Prince  de  Cadignan,  listening  to 
John  Barry's  report. 

Men  and  dogs,  all  alike,  were  respectful  in  the  presence  of 
the  master  of  the  hounds,  as  though  all  alike  recognized 
supreme  authority.     The  Prince  planned   the  order  of  the 
day;  for  a  hunt  is  like  a  battle,  and  Charles  3 
the  hounds  was  a  Napoleon  of  the  forest.     Thanks  to  tl 
admirable  discipline  carried  out  by  his  orders  in  stable  and 


284  MODESTE  MIGNON. 

kennel,  he  could  give  his  whole  mind  to  strategy  and  the 
science  of  the  chase.  He  assigned  a  place  in  the  proceedings 
of  the  day  to  the  Prince  de  London's  hounds  and  men,  re- 
serving them,  like  a  cavalry  corps,  to  turn  the  stag  back  on 
the  pool,  in  the  event  of  the  King's  packs  succeeding,  as  he 
hoped,  in  forcing  the  game  into  the  royal  demesne  lying  in 
the  distance  in  front  of  the  chateau.  He  gratified  the  self- 
respect  of  his  own  old  retainers  by  giving  them  the  hardest 
work,  and  that  of  the  Englishman,  whom  he  employed  in  his 
own  special  line,  by  giving  him  an  opportunity  of  displaying 
the  strength  of  limb  of  his  dogs  and  horses.  Thus  the  two 
methods  would  work  against  each  other,  and  do  wonders  to 
excite  reciprocal  emulation. 

"Are  we  to  wait  any  longer,  monsiegneur ? "  asked  la 
Roulie  respectfully. 

"I  understand  you,  old  friend,"  replied  the  Prince.  "It 
is  late,  but " 

"  Here  come  the  ladies,  for  Jupiter  scents  the  fetish 
odors,"  said  the  second  huntsman,  observing  the  nose  of  his 
favorite  hound. 

"  Fetish?  "  repeated  the  Prince  de  Loudon  with  a  smile. 

"  He  probably  means  fetid,"  said  the  Due  de  Rhetore. 

"That  is  it,  no  doubt,  for  everything  that  does  not  smell 
of  the  kennel  is  poisonous,  according  to  Monsieur  Laravine," 
replied  the  Prince. 

In  point  of  fact,  the  three  gentlemen  could  see  in  the  dis- 
tance a  party  of  sixteen  riders,  and  fluttering  at  their  head  the 
green  veils  of  four  ladies.  Modeste,  with  her  father,  the  Due 
d'Herouville,  and  little  la  Briere,  was  in  front,  with  the 
Duchesse  de  Maufrigneuse  attended  by  the  Vicomte  de  Serizy. 
Then  came  the  Duchesse  de  Chaulieu  with  Canalis  at  her  side, 
she  smiling  at  him  with  no  sign  of  rancor.  On  reaching  the 
clearing,  where  the  huntsmen,  dressed  in  red,  holding  their 
hunting  horns  and  surrounded  by  dogs  and  beaters,  formed  a 
group  worthy  of  the  brush  of  Van  der  Meulen,  the  Duchesse 


MODESTE  M1GNON.  285 

de  Chaulieu,  an  admirable  figure  on  horseback,  though  some- 
what too  stout,  drew  up  close  to  Modeste,  feeling  it  beneath 
her  dignity  to  sulk  with  the  young  person  to  whom,  the  day 
before,  she  had  not  spoken  a  word. 

Just  at  the  moment  when  the  master  of  the  hounds  had 
ended  his  compliments  on  such  fabulous  punctuality,  Eleonore 
condescended  to  remark  the  splendid  whip-handle  that  sparkled 
in  Modeste' s  little  hand,  and  she  very  graciously  begged  to 
examine  it. 

"It  is  the  finest  thing  in  its  way  that  I  have  ever  seen," 
said  she,  showing  the  gem  to  Diane  de  Maufrigneuse ;  "  but, 
indeed,  it  is  in  harmony  with  the  owner's  whole  person,"  she 
added,  as  she  returned  it  to  Modeste. 

"  You  will  confess,  madame,"  replied  Mademoiselle  de  la 
Bastie,  with  a  mischievous  but  tender  glance  at  la  Briere,  in 
which  he  could  read  an  avowal,  "  that  it  is  a  very  strange  gift 

as  coming  from  a  future  husband " 

"  Indeed,"  exclaimed  Madame  de  Maufrigneuse,  "I  should 
regard  it  as  a  recognition  of  my  rights,  remembering  always 
Louis  XIV." 

There  were  tears  in  la  Briere' s  eyes ;  he  dropped  his  bridle, 
and  was  ready  to  fall  j  but  another  look  from  Modeste  recalled 
him  to  himself  by  warning  him  not  to  betray  his  supreme 
happiness. 

The  cavalcade  set  out. 

The  Due  d'Herouville  said  in  a  low  voice  to  la  Briere: 
hope,  monsieur,  that  you  will  make  your  wife  happy,  and  if  ] 
can  in  any  way  serve  you,  command  me;  for  I  should 
lighted  to  contribute  to  the  happiness  of  two  such  chare 

people."  , 

This  great  day,  when  such  important  interests  of  hea 
fortunes  were  definitely  settled,  to  the  master  of  the  hounds 
offered  no  other  problem  but  that  as  to  whether  the  stag  won 
cross  the  pool,  and  be  killed  on  the  grass-slope  within  sight 
of  the  chateau ;  for  huntsmen  of  such  experience  are  like  chess 


286  MODESTE  MlGNOK. 

players,  who  can  foresee  a  checkmate  many  moves  ahead. 
The  fortunate  old  gentleman  succeeded  to  the  height  of  his 
wishes;  the  run  was  splendid,  and  the  ladies  relieved  him  of 
their  presence  on  the  next  day  but  one,  which  proved  to  be 
rainy. 

The  Due  de  Verneuil's  guests  remained  three  days  at 
Rosembray.  On  the  last  morning  the  "Gazette  de  France" 
contained  the  announcement  that  M.  le  Baron  de  Canalis  was 
appointed  to  the  rank  of  commander  of  the  Legion  of  Honor 
and  the  post  of  minister  at  Carlsruhe. 

When  early  in  the  month  of  December  the  Comtesse  de  la 
Bastie  was  operated  on  by  Desplein,  and  could  at  last  see 
Ernest  de  la  Briere,  she  pressed  Modeste's  hand  and  said  in 
her  ear — 

"  I  should  have  chosen  him." 

Toward  the  end  of  February  all  the  documents  relating  to 
the  acquisition  of  the  estates  were  signed  by  the  worthy  and 
excellent  Latournelle,  Monsieur  Mignon's  attorney  in  Prov- 
ence. At  this  time  the  family  of  la  Bastie  obtained  from  his 
majesty  the  distinguished  honor  of  his  signature  to  the  mar- 
riage contract  and  the  transmission  of  the  title  and  the  arms 
of  la  Bastie  to  Ernest  de  la  Briere,  who  was  authorized  to  call 
himself  the  Vicomte  de  la  Bastie-La  Briere.  The  estate  of  la 
Bastie,  reconstituted  to  yield  more  than  a  hundred  thousand 
francs  a  year,  was  entailed  by  letters  patent  registered  by  the 
court  in  the  month  of  April. 

La  Briere's  witnesses  were  Canalis  and  the  minister,  whose 
private  secretary  he  had  been  for  five  years.  Those  who 
signed  for  the  bride  were  the  Due  d'Herouville  and  Desplein, 
for  whom  the  Mignons  cherished  enduring  gratitude,  after 
giving  him  magnificent  proofs  of  it. 

By-and-by,  perhaps,  in  this  long  record  of  our  manners,  we 
may  meet  again  with  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  la  Briere-La 
Bastie,  and  connoisseurs  will  then  perceive  how  easy  and 


MODESTE  M1GNON. 


287 


sweet  a  tie  is  marriage  when  the  wife  is  well  informed  and 
clever;  for  Modeste,  who  kept  her  promise  of  avoiding  all 
the  absurdities  of  pedantry,  is  still  the  pride  and  delight  of 
her  husband,  of  her  family,  and  of  her  circle  of  friends. 

PARIS,  March-July,  1844. 


HONORINB. 

To  Monsieur  Achille  Deveria. 
An  affectionate  remembrance  from  the  Author. 

IF  the  French  have  as  great  an  aversion  for  traveling  as  the 
English  have  a  propensity  for  it,  both  English  and  French 
have  perhaps  sufficient  reasons.  Something  better  than 
England  is  everywhere  to  be  found;  whereas,  it  is  exces- 
sively difficult  to  find  the  charms  of  France  outside  France. 
Other  countries  can  show  admirable  scenery,  and  they  fre- 
quently offer  greater  comfort  than  that  of  France,  which 
makes  but  slow  progress  in  that  particular.  They  sometimes 
display  a  bewildering  magnificence,  grandeur,  and  luxury ; 
they  lack  neither  grace  nor  noble  manners ;  but  the  life  of 
the  brain,  the  talent  for  conversation,  the  "Attic  salt"  so 
familiar  at  Paris,  the  prompt  apprehension  of  what  one  is 
thinking,  but  does  not  say,  the  spirit  of  the  unspoken,  which 
is  half  the  French  language,  is  nowhere  else  to  be  met  with. 
Hence  a  Frenchman,  whose  raillery,  as  it  is,  finds  so  little 
comprehension,  would  wither  in  a  foreign  land  like  an  up- 
rooted tree.  Emigration  is  counter  to  the  instincts  of  the 
French  nation.  Many  Frenchmen,  of  the  kind  here  in  ques- 
tion, have  owned  to  pleasure  at  seeing  the  custom-house 
officers  of  their  native  land,  which  may  seem  the  most  daring 
hyperbole  of  patriotism. 

This  little  preamble  is  intended  to  recall  to  such  French- 
men as  have  traveled  the  extreme  pleasure  they  have  felt  on 
occasionally  finding  their  native  land,  like  an  oasis,  in  the 
drawing-room  of  some  diplomatist :  a  pleasure  hard  to  be 
understood  by  those  who  have  never  left  the  asphalt  of  the 
(288) 


HONOR INE.  LSD 

Boulevard  des  Italians,  and  to  whom  the  quais  of  the  left 
bank  of  the  Seine  are  not  really  Paris.  To  find  Paris  again  ! 
Do  you  know  what  that  means,  O  Parisians  ?  It  is  to  find — 
not  indeed  the  cookery  of  the  Rocher  de  Cancalc  as  Borel 
elaborates  it  for  those  who  can  appreciate  it,  for  that  exists 
only  in  the  Rue  Montorgueil — but  a  meal  which  reminds  you 
of  it !  It  is  to  find  the  wines  of  France,  which  out  of  France 
are  to  be  regarded  as  myths,  and  as  rare  as  the  woman  of 
whom  I  write  !  It  is  to  find — not  the  most  fashionable  pleas- 
antry, for  it  loses  its  aroma  between  Paris  and  the  frontier — 
but  the  witty  understanding,  the  critical  atmosphere  in  which 
the  French  live,  from  the  poet  down  to  the  artisan,  from  the 
duchess  to  the  boy  in  the  street. 

In  1836,  when  the  Sardinian  court  was  residing  at  Genoa, 
two  Parisians,  more  or  less  famous,  could  fancy  themselves 
still  in  Paris  when  they  found  themselves  in  a  palazzo,  taken 
by  the  French  consul-general,  on  the  hill  forming  the  last 
fold  of  the  Apennines  between  the  gate  of  San  Tomaso  and 
the  well-known  lighthouse,  which  is  to  be  seen  in  all  the 
keepsake  views  of  Genoa.  This  palazzo  is  one  of  the  mag- 
nificent villas  on  which  Genoese  nobles  were  wont  to  spend 
millions  at  the  time  when  the  aristocratic  republic  was  a 
power. 

If  the  early  night  is  beautiful  anywhere,  it  surely  is  at 
Genoa,  after  it  has  rained  as  it  can  rain  there,  in  torrents,  all 
the  morning  ;  when  the  clearness  of  the  sea  vies  with  that  of 
the  sky ;  when  silence  reigns  on  the  quay  and  in  the  groves 
of  the  villa,  and  over  the  marble  heads  with  yawning  jaws, 
from  which  water  mysteriously  flows;  when  the  stars  are 
beaming ;  when  the  waves  of  the  Mediterranean  lap  one  after 
another  like  the  avowal  of  a  woman,  from  whom  you  drag  it 
word  by  word.  It  must  be  confessed  that  the  moment  when 
the  perfumed  air  brings  fragrance  to  the  lungs  and  to  our  day- 
dreams;  when  voluptuousness,  made  visible  and  ambient  ; 
the  air,  holds  you  in  your  easy-chair;  when,  a  spoon  in  your 
19 


290  HONORINE. 

hand,  you  sip  an  ice  or  a  sherbet,  the  town  at  your  feet  and 
fair  women  opposite — such  Boccaccio  hours  can  be  known 
only  in  Italy  and  on  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean. 

Imagine  to  yourself,  round  the  table,  the  Marquis  di  Negro, 
a  knight  hospitaler  to  all  men  of  talent  on  their  travels,  and 
the  Marquis  Damaso  Pareto,  two  Frenchmen  disguised  as 
Genoese,  a  consul-general  with  a  wife  as  beautiful  as  a  Ma- 
donna, and  two  silent  children — silent  because  sleep  has  fallen 
on  them — the  French  ambassador  and  his  wife,  a  secretary  to 
the  embassy  who  believes  himself  to  be  crushed  and  mischiev- 
ous; finally,  two  Parisians,  who  have  come  to  take  leave  of  the 
consul's  wife  at  a  splendid  dinner,  and  you  will  have  the  pic- 
ture presented  by  the  terrace  of  the  villa  about  the  middle  of 
May — a  picture  in  which  the  predominant  figure  was  that  of  a 
celebrated  woman,  on  whom  all  eyes  centred  now  and  again, 
the  heroine  of  this  improvised  festival. 

One  of  the  two  Frenchmen  was  the  famous  landscape  painter, 
Leon  de  Lora ;  the  other  a  well-known  critic,  Claude  Vignon. 
They  had  both  come  with  this  lady,  one  of  the  glories  of  the 
fair  sex,  Mademoiselle  des  Touches,  known  in  the  literary 
world  by  the  name  of  Camille  Maupin. 

Mademoiselle  des  Touches  had  been  to  Florence  on  busi- 
ness. With  the  charming  kindness  of  which  she  is  prodigal, 
she  had  brought  with  her  L6on  de  Lora  to  show  him  Italy,  and 
had  gone  on  as  far  as  Rome  that  he  might  see  the  Campagna. 
She  had  come  by  the  Simplon,  and  was  returning  by  the  Cor- 
nice road  to  Marseilles.  She  had  stopped  at  Genoa,  again  on 
the  landscape  painter's  account.  The  consul-general  had,  of 
course,  wished  to  do  the  honors  of  Genoa,  before  the  arrival 
of  the  court,  to  a  woman  whose  wealth,  name,  and  position 
recommend  her  no  less  than  her  talents.  Camille  Maupin, 
who  knew  her  Genoa  down  to  its  smallest  chapels,  had  left 
her  landscape  painter  to  the  care  of  the  diplomatist  and  the 
Genoese  marquises,  and  was  miserly  of  her  minutes.  Though 
the  ambassador  was  a  distinguished  man  of  letters,  the  cele- 


HONORINE.  29! 

brated  lady  had  refused  to  yield  to  his  advances,  dreading 
what  the  English  call  an  exhibition ;  but  she  had  drawn  in 
the  claws  of  her  refusals  when  it  was  proposed  that  they  should 
spend  a  farewell  day  at  the  consul's  villa.  Leon  de  Lora  had 
told  Camille  that  her  presence  at  the  villa  was  the  only  return 
he  could  make  to  the  ambassador  and  his  wife,  the  two  Gen- 
oese noblemen,  the  consul  and  his  wife.  So  Mademoiselle  des 
Touches  had  sacrificed  one  of  those  days  of  perfect  freedom, 
which  are  not  always  to  be  had  in  Paris  by  those  on  whom  the 
world  has  its  eye. 

Now,  the  meeting  being  accounted  for,  it  is  easy  to  under- 
stand that  etiquette  had  been  banished,  as  well  as  a  great 
many  women  even  of  the  highest  rank,  who  were  curious  to 
know  whether  Camille  Maupin's  manly  talent  impaired  her 
grace  as  a  pretty  woman,  and  to  see,  in  a  word,  whether  the 
trousers  showed  below  her  petticoats.  After  dinner  till  nine 
o'clock,  when  a  collation  was  served,  though  the  conversation 
had  been  gay  and  grave  by  turns,  and  constantly  enlivened 
by  Leon  de  Lora's  sallies — for  he  is  considered  the  most 
roguish  wit  of  Paris  to-day — and  by  the  good  taste  which  will 
surprise  no  one  after  the  list  of  guests,  literature  had  scarcely 
been  mentioned.  However,  the  butterfly  Sittings  of  this 
French  tilting  match  were  certain  to  come  to  it,  were  it  only 
to  flutter  over  this  essentially  French  subject.  But  before 
coming  to  the  turn  in  the  conversation  which  led  the  consul- 
general  to  speak,  it  will  not  be  out  of  place  to  give  some  ac- 
count of  him  and  his  family. 

This  diplomatist,  a  man  of  four-and-thirty,  who  had  been 
married  about  seven  years,  was  a  living  portrait  of  Lord  Byron. 
The  familiarity  of  that  face  makes  a  description  of  the  con- 
sul's unnecessary.  It  may,  however,  be  noted  that  there  was 
no  affectation  in  his  dreamy  expression.  Lord  Byron  was 
a  poet,  and  the  consul  was  poetical  ;  women  know  and  recog- 
nize the  difference,  which  explains  without  justifying  some 
of  their  attachments.  His  handsome  face,  thrown  into  relief 


292  HONORINE. 

by  a  delightful  nature,  had  captivated  a  Genoese  heiress.  A 
Genoese  heiress  !  the  expression  might  raise  a  smile  at  Genoa, 
where,  in  consequence  of  the  inability  of  daughters  to  inherit, 
a  woman  is  rarely  rich ;  but  Onorina  Pedrotti,  the  only  child 
of  a  banker  without  heirs  male,  was  an  exception.  Notwith- 
standing all  the  flattering  advances  prompted  by  a  spontaneous 
passion,  the  consul-general  had  not  seemed  to  wish  to  marry. 
Nevertheless,  after  living  in  the  town  for  two  years,  and  after 
certain  steps  taken  by  the  ambassador  during  his  visits  to  the 
Genoese  court,  the  marriage  was  decided  on.  The  young 
man  withdrew  his  former  refusal,  less  on  account  of  the  touch- 
ing affection  of  Onorina  Pedrotti  than  by  reason  of  an  un- 
known incident,  one  of  those  crises  of  private  life  which  are 
so  instantly  buried  under  the  daily  tide  of  interests  that,  at  a 
subsequent  date,  the  most  natural  actions  seem  inexplicable. 

This  involution  of  causes  sometimes  affects  the  most  serious 
events  of  history.  This,  at  any  rate,  was  the  opinion  of  the 
town  of  Genoa,  where,  to  some  women,  the  extreme  reserve, 
the  melancholy  of  the  French  consul  could  be  explained  only 
by  the  word  passion.  It  may  be  remarked,  in  passing,  that 
women  never  complain  of  being  the  victims  of  a  preference  ; 
they  are  very  ready  to  immolate  themselves  for  the  common 
weal.  Onorina  Pedrotti,  who  might  have  hated  the  consul 
if  she  had  been  altogether  scorned,  loved  her  sposo  no  less, 
and  perhaps  more,  when  she  knew  that  he  had  loved.  Women 
allow  precedence  in  love  affairs.  All  is  well  if  other  women 
are  in  question. 

A  man  is  not  a  diplomatist  with  impunity :  the  sposo  was  as 
secret  as  the  grave — so  secret  that  the  merchants  of  Genoa 
chose  to  regard  the  young  consul's  attitude  as  premeditated, 
and  the  heiress  might  perhaps  have  slipped  through  his  fingers 
if  he  had  not  played  his  part  of  a  love-sick  malade  imaginaire. 
If  it  was  real,  the  women  thought  it  too  degrading  to  be 
believed. 

Pedrotti's  daughter  gave  him  her  love  as  a  consolation  ; 


HONORINE.  ±i:i 

she  lulled  these  unknown  griefs  in  a  cradle  of  tenderness  and 
Italian  caresses. 

The  Signer  Pedrotti  had  indeed  no  reason  to  complain  of  the 
choice  to  which  he  was  driven  by  his  beloved  child.  Power- 
ful protectors  in  Paris  watched  over  the  young  diplomatist's 
fortunes.  In  accordance  with  a  promise  made  by  the  am- 
bassador to  the  consul-general's  father-in-law,  the  young  man 
was  created  Baron  and  commander  of  the  Legion  of  Honor. 
Signer  Pedrotti  himself  was  made  a  Count  by  the  King  of 
Sardinia.  Onorina's  dower  was  a  million  of  francs.  As  to 
the  fortune  of  the  Casa  Pedrotti,  estimated  at  two  millions, 
made  in  the  corn  trade,  the  young  couple  came  into  it  within 
six  months  of  their  marriage,  for  the  first  and  last  Count 
Pedrotti  died  in  January,  1831. 

Onorina  Pedrotti  is  one  of  those  beautiful  Genoese  women 
who,  when  they  are  beautiful,  are  the  most  magnificent  crea- 
tures in  Italy.  Michael  Angelo  took  his  models  in  Genoa  for 
the  tomb  of  Giuliano.  Hence  the  fullness  and  singular  plac- 
ing of  the  breast  in  the  figures  of  Day  and  Night,  which  so 
many  critics  have  thought  exaggerated,  but  which  is  peculiar 
to  the  women  of  Liguria.  A  Genoese  beauty  is  no  longer  to 
be  found  excepting  under  the  mezzaro,  as  at  Venice  it  is  met 
with  only  under  the  fazzioli.  This  phenomenon  is  observed 
among  all  fallen  nations.  The  noble  type  survives  only  among 
the  populace,  as  after  the  burning  of  a  town  coins  are  found 
hidden  in  the  ashes.  And  Onorina,  an  exception  as  regards 
her  fortune,  is  no  less  an  exceptional  patrician  beauty.  Re- 
call to  mind  the  figure  of  Night  which  Michael  Angelo  has 
placed  at  the  feet  of  the  "  Pensieroso,"  dress  her  in  modern 
garb,  twist  that  long  hair  around  the  magnificent  head,  a  little 
dark  in  complexion,  set  a  spark  of  fire  in  those  dreamy  eyes, 
throw  a  scarf  about  the  massive  bosom,  see  the  long  dress, 
white,  embroidered  with  flowers,  imagine  the  statue  sitting 
upright,  with  her  arms  folded  like  those  of  Mademoiselle 
Georges,  and  you  will  see  before  you  the  consul's  wife,  with 


294  HONORINE. 

a  boy  of  six,  as  handsome  as  a  mother's  desire,  and  a  little 
girl  of  four  on  her  knees,  as  beautiful  as  the  type  of  childhood 
so  laboriously  sought  out  by  the  sculptor  David  to  grace  a 
tomb. 

This  beautiful  family  was  the  object  of  Camille's  secret 
study.  It  struck  Mademoiselle  des  Touches  that  the  consul 
looked  rather  too  absent-minded  for  a  perfectly  happy  man. 

Although,  throughout  the  day,  the  husband  and  wife  had 
offered  her  the  pleasing  spectacle  of  complete  happiness, 
Camille  wondered  why  one  of  the  most  superior  men  she  had 
ever  met,  and  whom  she  had  seen,  too,  in  Paris  drawing-rooms, 
remained  as  consul-general  at  Genoa  when  he  possessed  a  for- 
tune of  a  hundred-odd  thousand  francs  a  year.  But,  at  the 
same  time,  she  had  discerned,  by  many  of  the  little  nothings 
which  women  perceive  with  the  intelligence  of  the  Arab  sage 
in  "  Zadig,"  that  the  husband  was  faithfully  devoted.  These 
two  handsome  creatures  would  no  doubt  love  each  other  with- 
out a  misunderstanding  till  the  end  of  their  days.  So  Camille 
said  to  herself  alternately,  "What  is  wrong?  Nothing  is 
wrong,"  following  the  misleading  symptoms  of  the  consul's 
demeanor ;  and  he,  it  may  be  said,  had  the  absolute  calmness 
of  Englishmen,  of  savages,  of  Orientals,  and  of  consummate 
diplomatists. 

In  discussing  literature,  they  spoke  of  the  perennial  stock- 
in-trade  of  the  republic  of  letters — woman's  sin.  And  they 
presently  found  themselves  confronted  by  two  opinions : 
When  a  woman  sins,  is  the  man  or  the  woman  to  blame  ? 
The  three  women  present — the  ambassadress,  the  consul's 
wife,  and  Mademoiselle  des  Touches,  women,  of  course,  of 
blameless  reputations — were  without  pity  for  the  woman.  The 
men  tried  to  convince  these  three  fair  flowers  of  their  sex 
that  some  virtues  might  remain  in  a  woman  after  she  had 
fallen. 

"  How  long  are  we  going  to  play  at  hide-and-seek  in  this 
way  ?  ' '  asked  Leon  de  Lora. 


HONORINE.  29o 

I 

"Dear  life,  go  and  put  your  children  to  bed,  and  send  me 
by  Gina  the  little  black  pocket-book  that  lies  on  my  boule 
cabinet,"  said  the  consul  to  his  wife. 

She  arose  without  a  reply,  which  showed  that  she  loved  her 
husband  very  truly,  for  she  already  knew  French  enough  to 
understand  that  her  husband  was  getting  rid  of  her. 

"  I  will  tell  you  a  story  in  which  I  played  a  part,  and  after 
that  we  can  discuss  it,  for  it  seems  to  me  childish  to  practice 
with  the  scalpel  on  an  imaginary  body.  Begin  by  dissecting 
a  corpse." 

Every  one  prepared  to  listen,  with  all  the  greater  readiness 
because  they  had  all  talked  enough,  and  this  is  the  moment  to 
be  chosen  for  telling  a  story.  This,  then,  is  the  consul- 
general's  tale  : 

"When  I  was  twenty-two,  and  had  taken  my  degree  in 
law,  my  old  uncle,  the  Abb6  Loraux,  then  seventy-two  years 
old,  felt  it  necessary  to  provide  me  with  a  protector  and  to 
start  me  in  some  career.  This  excellent  man,  if  not  indeed 
a  saint,  regarded  each  year  of  his  life  as  a  fresh  gift  from 
God.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  the  father  confessor  of  a  royal 
highness  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  a  place  for  a  young  man 
brought  up  by  himself,  his  sister's  only  child.  So  one  day, 
toward  the  end  of  the  year  1824,  this  venerable  old  man, 
who  for  five  years  had  been  cure  of  the  white  friars  at  Paris, 
came  up  to  the  room  I  had  in  his  house,  and  said  in  his  mild, 
gentle  way — 

"  «  Get  yourself  dressed,  my  dear  boy  ;  I  am  going  to  in- 
troduce you  to  some  one  who  is  willing  to  engage  you  as 
secretary.     If  I  am  not  mistaken,  he  may  fill  my  place  in  the 
event  of  God's  taking  me  to  Himself.     I  shall  have  finis 
mass  by  nine  o'clock  ;  you  have  three-quarters  of  an  hour  1 
fore  you.     Be  ready.' 

"  '  What,  uncle  !  must  I  say  good-by  to  this  room,  wh« 
for  four  years  I  have  been  so  happy  ? ' 

"  <  I  have  no  fortune  to  leave  you,'  said  he. 


296  HONORINE. 

"  '  Have  you  not  the  reputation  of  your  name  to  leave  me,* 
the  memory  of  your  good  works ? ' 

"  « We  need  say  nothing  of  that  inheritance,'  he  replied, 
smiling.  '  You  do  not  yet  know  enough  of  the  world  to  be 
aware  that  a  legacy  of  that  kind  is  hardly  likely  to  be  paid, 
whereas  by  taking  you  this  morning  to  M.  le  Comte ' — Allow 
•me,"  said  the  consul,  interrupting  himself,  "  to  speak  of  my 
protector  by  his  Christian  name  only,  and  to  call  him  Comte 
Octave. — '  By  taking  you  this  morning  to  M.  le  Comte  Octave, 
I  hope  to  secure  you  his  patronage,  which,  if  you  are  so  for- 
tunate as  to  please  that  virtuous  statesman — as  I  make  no  doubt 
you  can — will  be  worth,  at  least,  as  much  as  the  fortune  I 
might  have  accumulated  for  you,  if  my  brother-in-law's  ruin 
and  my  sister's  death  had  not  fallen  on  me  like  a  thunder- 
bolt from  a  clear  sky.' 

"  '  Are  you  the  Count's  director?  ' 

"  '  If  I  were,  could  I  place  you  with  him  ?  What  priest 
could  be  capable  of  taking  advantage  of  the  secrets  which  he 
learns  at  the  tribunal  of  repentance  ?  No  ;  you  owe  this  posi- 
tion to  his  highness  the  keeper  of  the  seals.  My  dear 
Maurice,  you  will  be  as  much  at  home  there  as  in  your  father's 
house.  The  Count  will  give  you  a  salary  of  two  thousand 
four  hundred  francs,  rooms  in  his  house,  and  an  allowance  of 
twelve  hundred  francs  in  lieu  of  feeding  you.  He  will  not 
admit  you  to  his  table,  nor  give  you  a  separate  table,  for  fear 
of  leaving  you  to  the  care  of  servants.  I  did  not  accept  the 
offer  when  it  was  made  to  me  till  I  was  perfectly  certain  that 
Comte  Octave's  secretary  was  never  to  be  a  mere  upper 
servant.  You  will  have  an  immense  amount  of  work,  for  the 
Count  is  a  great  worker ;  but  when  you  leave  him  you  will 
be  qualified  to  fill  the  highest  posts.  I  need  not  warn  you  to 
be  discreet ;  that  is  the  first  virtue  of  any  man  who  hopes  to 
hold  public  appointments.' 

"You  may  conceive  of  my  curiosity.  Comte  Octave,  at 
that  time,  held  one  of  the  highest  legal  appointments;  he 


HONORINE.  297 

'was  in  the  confidence  of  Madame  the  Dauphiness,  who  had 
just  got  him  made  a  state  minister ;  he  led  such  a  life  as  the 
Comte  de  Serizy,  whom  you  all  know,  I  think ;  but  even  more 
quietly,  for  his  house  was  in  the  Marais,  Rue  Payenne,  and  he 
hardly  ever  entertained.  His  private  life  escaped  public  com- 
ment by  its  hermit-like  simplicity  and  by  constant  hard  work. 

"Let  me  describe  my  position  to  you  in  a  few  words. 
Having  found  in  the  solemn  headmaster  of  the  College  Saint- 
Louis  a  tutor  to  whom  my  uncle  delegated  his  authority,  at 
the  age  of  eighteen  I  had  gone  through  all  the  classes ;  I  left 
school  as  innocent  as  a  seminarist,  full  of  faith,  on  quitting 
Saint-Sulpice.  My  mother,  on  her  death-bed,  had  made  my 
uncle  promise  that  I  should  not  become  a  priest,  but  I  was  as 
pious  as  though  I  had  to  take  orders.  On  leaving  college, 
the  Abbe  Loraux  took  me  into  his  house  and  made  me  study 
law.  During  the  four  years  of  study  requisite  for  passing  all 
the  examinations,  I  worked  hard,  but  chiefly  at  things  outside 
the  arid  fields  of  jurisprudence.  Weaned  from  literature  as  I 
had  been  at  college,  where  I  lived  in  the  headmaster's  house, 
I  had  a  thirst  to  quench.  As  soon  as  I  had  read  a  few  modern 
masterpieces,  the  works  of  all  the  preceding  ages  were  greedily 
swallowed.  I  became  crazy  about  the  theatre,  and  for  a  long 
time  I  went  every  night  to  the  play,  though  my  uncle  gave 
me  only  a  hundred  francs  a  month.  This  parsimony,  to 
which  the  good  old  man  was  compelled  by  his  regard  for  the 
poor,  had  the  effect  of  keeping  a  young  man's  desires  within 
reasonable  limits. 

"When  I  went  to  live  with  Comte  Octave  I  was  not  indeed 
an  innocent,  but  I  thought  of  my  rare  escapades  as  crimes. 
My  uncle  was  so  truly  angelic,  and  I  was  so  much  afraid  of 
grieving  him,  that  in  all  those  four  years  I  had  never  spent  a 
night  out.  The  good  man  would  wait  till  I  came  in  to  go  to  bed. 
This  almost-maternal  care  had  more  power  to  keep  me  within 
bounds  than  the  sermons  and  reproaches  with  which  the  life 
of  a  young  man  is  diversified  in  a  puritanical  home.  I  was  a 


298  HONORINE. 

stranger  to  the  various  circles  which  make  up  the  world  of 
Paris  society ;  I  only  knew  some  women  of  the  better  sort, 
and  none  of  the  inferior  class  but  those  I  saw  as  I  walked 
about,  or  in  the  boxes  at  the  play,  and  then  only  from  the 
depths  of  the  pit  where  I  sat.  If,  at  that  period,  any  one 
had  said  to  me,  '  You  will  see  Canalis  or  Camille  Maupin,'  I 
should  have  felt  hot  coals  on  my  head  and  in  my  bowels. 
Famous  people  were  to  me  as  gods,  who  neither  spoke,  nor 
walked,  nor  ate  like  other  mortals. 

"How  many  tales  of  the  '  Thousand-and-one  Nights'  are 
comprehended  in  the  ripening  of  a  youth  !  How  many  won- 
derful lamps  must  we  have  rubbed  before  we  understand  that 
the  true  wonderful  lamp  is  either  luck,  or  work,  or  genius! 
In  some  men  this  dream  of  the  aroused  spirit  is  but  brief; 
mine  has  lasted  until  now !  In  those  days  I  always  went  to 
sleep  as  Grand  Duke  of  Tuscany — as  a  millionaire — as  beloved 
by  a  princess — or  famous  !  So  to  enter  the  service  of  Comte 
Octave,  and  have  a  hundred  louis  a  year,  was  entering  on 
independent  life.  I  had  glimpses  of  some  chance  of  getting 
into  society,  and  seeking  for  what  my  heart  desired  most,  a 
protectress,  who  would  rescue  me  from  the  paths  of  danger, 
which  a  young  man  of  twenty-two  can  hardly  help  treading, 
however  prudent  and  well  brought  up  he  may  be.  I  began 
to  be  afraid  of  myself. 

"  The  persistent  study  of  other  people's  rights  into  which  I 
had  plunged  was  not  always  enough  to  repress  painful  imagin- 
ings. Yes,  sometimes  in  fancy  I  threw  myself  into  theatrical 
life ;  I  thought  I  could  be  a  great  actor  ;  I  dreamed  of  endless 
triumphs  and  loves,  knowing  nothing  of  the  disillusion  hidden 
behind  the  curtain,  as  everywhere  else — for  every  stage  has  its 
reverse  behind  the  scenes.  I  have  gone  out  sometimes,  my 
heart  boiling,  carried  away  by  an  impulse  to  rush  hunting 
through  Paris,  to  attach  myself  to  some  handsome  woman  I 
might  meet,  to  follow  her  to  her  door,  watch  her,  write  to 
her,  throw  myself  on  her  mercy,  and  conquer  her  by  sheer 


HONORINE.  ._,,,, 

force  of  passion.  My  poor  uncle,  a  heart  consumed  by 
charity,  a  child  of  seventy  years,  as  clear-sighted  as  God,  as 
guileless  as  a  man  of  genius,  no  doubt  read  the  tumult  of  my 
soul ;  for  when  he  felt  the  tether  by  which  he  held  me  strained 
too  tightly  and  ready  to  break,  he  would  never  fail  to  say, 
'  Here,  Maurice,  you  too  are  poor  !  Here  are  twenty  francs ; 
go  and  amuse  yourself,  you  are  not  a  priest ! '  And  if  you 
could  then  have  seen  the  dancing  light  that  gilded  his  gray 
eyes,  the  smile  that  relaxed  his  fine  lips,  puckering  the  corners 
of  his  mouth,  the  adorable  expression  of  that  august  face, 
whose  native  ugliness  was  redeemed  by  the  spirit  of  an  apostle, 
you  would  understand  the  feeling  which  made  me  answer  the 
cure  of  white  friars  only  with  a  kiss,  as  if  he  had  been  my 
mother. 

"'In  Comte  Octave  you  will  find  not  a  master,  but  a 
friend,'  said  my  uncle  on  the  way  to  the  Rue  Payenne.  '  But 
he  is  distrustful,  or,  to  be  more  exact,  he  is  cautious.  The 
statesman's  friendship  can  be  won  only  with  time  ;  for  in 
spite  of  his  deep  insight  and  his  habit  of  gauging  men,  he  was 
deceived  by  the  man  you  are  succeeding,  and  nearly  became 
a  victim  to  his  abuse  of  confidence.  This  is  enough  to  guide 
you  in  your  behavior  to  him.' 

"  When  we  knocked  at  the  enormous  outer  door  of  a  house 
as  large  as  the  Hotel  Carnavalet,  with  a  courtyard  in  front 
and  a  garden  behind,  the  sound  rang  as  in  a  desert.  While 
my  uncle  inquired  of  an  old  porter  in  livery  if  the  Count  were 
at  home,  I  cast  my  eyes,  seeing  everything  at  once,  over  the 
courtyard  where  the  cobblestones  were  hidden  in  grass,  the 
blackened  walls  where  little  gardens  were  flourishing  above 
the  decorations  of  the  elegant  architecture,  and  on  the  roof, 
as  high  as  that  of  the  Tuileries.  The  balustrade  of  the  upper 
balconies  was  eaten  away.  Through  a  magnificent  colonnade 
I  could  see  a  second  court  on  one  side,  where  were  the  offices ; 
the  door  was  rotting.  An  old  coachman  was  there  cleaning 
an  old  carriage.  The  indifferent  air  of  this  servant  allowed 


300  HONORINE. 

me  to  assume  that  the  handsome  stables,  where  of  old  so  many 
horses  had  whinnied,  now  sheltered  two  at  most.  The  hand- 
some fagade  of  the  house  seemed  to  me  gloomy,  like  that  of  a 
mansion  belonging  to  the  state  or  the  crown,  and  given  up  to 
some  public  office.  A  bell  rang  as  we  walked  across,  my 
uncle  and  I,  from  the  porter's  lodge — '  Enquire  of  the  Porter' 
was  still  written  over  the  door — toward  the  outside  steps, 
where  a  footman  came  out  in  a  livery  like  that  of  Labranche 
at  the  Theatre  Frangais  in  the  old  stock  plays.  A  visitor  was 
so  rare  that  the  servant  was  putting  his  coat  on  when  he 
opened  a  door  glazed  with  small  panes,  on  each  side  of  which 
the  smoke  of  a  lamp  had  traced  patterns  on  the  wall. 

"A  hall  so  magnificent  as  to  be  worthy  of  Versailles  ended 
in  a  staircase  such  as  will  never  again  be  built  in  France, 
taking  up  as  much  space  as  the  whole  of  a  modern  house. 
As  we  went  up  the  marble  steps,  as  cold  as  tombstones  and 
wide  enough  for  eight  persons  to  walk  abreast,  our  tread 
echoed  under  sonorous  vaulting.  The  banister  charmed  the 
eye  by  its  miraculous  workmanship — goldsmith's  work  in  iron 
— wrought  by  the  fancy  of  an  artist  of  the  time  of  Henri  III. 
Chilled  as  by  an  icy  mantle  that  fell  on  our  shoulders,  we 
went  through  anterooms,  drawing-rooms,  opening  one  out  of 
the  other,  with  carpetless  parquet  floors,  and  furnished  with 
such  splendid  antiquities  as  from  thence  would  find  their  way 
to  the  curiosity  dealers.  At  last  we  reached  a  large  study  in 
a  cross  wing,  with  all  the  windows  looking  into  an  immense 
garden. 

"  '  Monsieur  le  Cur6  of  the  White  Friars  and  his  nephew, 
Monsieur  de  L'Hostal,'  said  Labranche,  to  whose  care  the 
other  theatrical  servant  had  consigned  us  in  the  first  ante- 
chamber. 

"  Comte  Octave,  dressed  in  long  trousers  and  a  gray  flannel 
morning-coat,  rose  from  his  seat  by  a  huge  writing-table, 
came  to  the  fireplace  and  signed  to  me  to  sit  down,  while  he 
went  forward  to  take  my  uncle's  hands,  which  he  pressed. 


HONORINE.  30l 

"  'Though  I  am  in  the  parish  of  Saint-Paul,'  said  he,  •  I 
could  scarcely  have  failed  to  hear  of  the  cure  of  the  white 
friars,  and  I  am  happy  to  make  his  acquaintance.' 

"'Your  excellency  is  most  kind,'  replied  my  uncle.  4I 
have  brought  to  you  my  only  remaining  relation.  While  I 
believe  that  I  am  offering  a  good  gift  to  your  excellency, 
I  hope  at  the  same  time  to  give  my  nephew  a  second  father.' 

"  'As  to  that,  I  can  only  reply,  Monsieur  1'Abbe,  when 
we  shall  have  tried  each  other,'  said  Comte  Octave.  'Your 
name  ?  '  he  added  to  me. 

"  '  Maurice.' 

"  '  He  has  taken  his  doctor's  degree  in  law,'  my  uncle  ob- 
served. 

"  «  Very  good,  very  good  ! '  said  the  Count,  looking  at  me 
from  head  to  foot.  '  Monsieur  1'Abbe,  I  hope  that  for  your 
nephew's  sake  in  the  first  instance,  and  then  for  mine,  you 
will  do  me  the  honor  of  dining  here  every  Monday.  That 
will  be  our  family  dinner,  our  family  party.' 

"  My  uncle  and  the  Count  then  began  to  talk  of  religion 
from  the  political  point  of  view,  of  charitable  institutes,  the 
repression  of  crime,  so  I  could  at  my  leisure  study  the  man 
on  whom  my  fate  would  henceforth  depend.  The  Count  was 
of  middle  height ;  it  was  impossible  to  judge  of  his  build  on 
account  of  his  dress,  but  he  seemed  to  me  to  be  lean  and 
spare.  His  face  was  harsh  and  hollow;  the  features  were 
refined.  His  mouth,  which  was  rather  large,  expressed  both 
irony  and  kindliness.  His  forehead,  perhaps  too  spacious, 
was  as  intimidating  as  that  of  a  madman,  all  the  more  so 
from  the  contrast  of  the  lower  part  of  the  face,  which  ended 
squarely  in  a  short  chin  very  near  the  lower  lip.  Small  eyes, 
of  turquoise  blue,  were  as  keen  and  bright  as  those  of  the 
Prince  de  Talleyrand — which  I  admired  at  a  later  time — 
and  endowed,  like  the  Prince's,  with  a  faculty  of  becoming 
expressionless  to  the  verge  of  gloom ;  and  they  added  to  the 
singularity  of  a  face  that  was  not  pale  but  yellow.  This  com- 


302  HONORINE. 

plexion  seemed  to  bespeak  an  irritable  temper  and  violent 
passions.  His  hair,  already  silvered  and  carefully  dressed, 
seemed  to  furrow  his  head  with  streaks  of  black  and  white 
alternately.  The  trimness  of  this  head  spoiled  the  resem- 
blance I  had  remarked  in  the  Count  to  the  wonderful  monk 
described  by  Lewis  after  Schedoni  in  the  '  Confessional  of 
the  Black  Penitents,'  a  superior  creation,  as  it  seems  to  me, 
to  'The  Monk.' 

"The  Count  was  already  shaved,  having  to  attend  early  at 
the  law  courts.  Two  candelabra  with  four  lights,  screened 
by  lamp-shades,  were  still  burning  at  the  opposite  ends  of  the 
writing-table,  and  showed  plainly  that  the  magistrate  rose 
long  before  daylight.  His  hands,  which  I  saw  when  he  took 
hold  of  the  bell-pull  to  summon  his  servant,  were  extremely 
fine  and  as  white  as  a  woman's. 

"As  I  tell  you  this  story,"  said  the  consul-general,  inter- 
rupting himself,  "  I  am  altering  the  titles  and  the  social  posi- 
tion of  this  gentleman,  while  placing  him  in  circumstances 
analogous  to  what  his  really  were.  His  profession,  rank, 
luxury,  fortune,  and  style  of  living  were  the  same ;  all  these 
details  are  true,  but  I  will  not  be  false  to  my  benefactor,  nor 
to  my  usual  habits  of  discretion. 

"  Instead  of  feeling — as  I  really  was,  socially  speaking — an 
insect  in  the  presence  of  an  eagle,"  the  narrator  went  on 
after  a  pause,  "  I  felt  I  know  not  what  indefinable  impression 
from  the  Count's  appearance,  which,  however,  I  can  now 
account  for.  Artists  of  genius"  (and  he  bowed  gracefully  to 
the  ambassador,  the  distinguished  lady,  and  the  two  French- 
men), "real  statesmen,  poets,  a  general  who  has  commanded 
armies — in  short,  all  really  great  minds  are  simple,  and  their 
simplicity  places  you  on  a  level  with  themselves.  You  who 
are  all  of  superior  minds,"  he  said,  addressing  his  guests, 
"  have  perhaps  observed  how  feeling  can  bridge  over  the  dis- 
tances created  by  society.  If  we  are  inferior  to  you  in  intel- 
lect, we  can  be  your  equals  in  devoted  friendship.  By  the 


HONORING.  303 

temperature— allow  me  the  word— of  our  hearts  I  felt  myself 
as  near  my  patron  as  I  was  far  below  him  in  rank.  In  short, 
the  soul  has  its  clairvoyance ;  it  has  presentiments  of  suffer- 
ing, grief,  joy,  antagonism,  or  hatred  in  others. 

"  I  vaguely  discerned  the  symptoms  of  a  mystery,  from  rec- 
ognizing in  the  Count  the  same  effects  of  physiognomy  that 
I  had  observed  in  my  uncle.  The  exercise  of  virtue,  serenity 
of  conscience,  and  purity  of  mind  had  transfigured  my  uncle, 
who  from  being  ugly  had  become  quite  beautiful.  I  de- 
tected a  metamorphosis  of  a  reverse  kind  in  the  Count's  face; 
at  the  first  glance  I  thought  he  was  about  fifty-five,  but  after 
an  attentive  examination  I  found  youth  entombed  under  the 
ice  of  a  great  sorrow,  under  the  fatigue  of  persistent  study, 
under  the  glowing  hues  of  some  suppressed  passion.  At  a 
word  from  my  uncle  the  Count's  eyes  recovered  for  a  moment 
the  softness  of  the  periwinkle  flower  and  he  had  an  admir- 
ing smile,  which  revealed  what  I  believed  to  be  his  real  age, 
about  forty.  These  observations  I  made,  not  then  but  after- 
ward, as  I  recalled  the  many  different  circumstances  of  my 
visit. 

"  The  manservant  came  in  carrying  a  tray  with  his  master's 
breakfast  on  it. 

"  '  I  did  not  ask  for  breakfast,'  remarked  the  Count;  'but 
leave  it,  and  show  monsieur  to  his  rooms. ' 

"  I  followed  the  servant,  who  led  the  way  to  a  complete  set 
of  pretty  rooms,  under  a  terrace,  between  the  great  courtyard 
and  the  servants'  quarters,  over  a  corridor  of  communication 
between  the  kitchens  and  the  grand  staircase.  When  I  re- 
turned to  the  Count's  study,  I  overheard,  before  opening  the 
door,  my  uncle  pronouncing  this  judgment  on  me — 

"  '  He  may  do  wrong,  for  he  has  strong  feelings,  and 
we  are  all  liable  to  honorable  mistakes;  but  he  has  no 

vices.' 

"  '  Well,'  said  the  Count  to  me,  with  a  kindly  look, '  do  you 
like  yourself  there  ?  Tell  me.  There  are  so  many  rooms 


304  HONORINE. 

in  this  barrack  that,  if  you  were  not  comfortable,  I  could 
put  you  elsewhere.' 

"  'At  my  uncle's  I  had  but  one  room,'  I  replied. 

"'Well,  you  can  settle  yourself  this  evening,'  said  the 
Count,  '  for  your  possessions,  no  doubt,  are  such  as  all  stu- 
dents own  and  a  hackney  coach  will  be  enough  to  convey 
them.  To-day  we  will  all  three  dine  together,'  and  he  looked 
at  my  uncle. 

"A  splendid  library  opened  from  the  Count's  study,  and 
he  took  us  in  there,  showing  me  a  pretty  little  recess  decorated 
with  paintings,  which  had  formerly  served,  no  doubt,  as  an 
oratory. 

"  'This  is  your  cell,'  said  he.  'You  will  sit  there  when 
you  have  to  work  with  me,  for  you  will  not  be  tethered  by  a 
chain ;  '  and  he  explained  in  detail  the  kind  and  duration  of 
my  employment  with  him.  As  I  listened  I  felt  that  he  was  a 
great  political  teacher. 

"  It  took  me  about  a  month  to  familiarize  myself  with  peo- 
ple and  things,  to  learn  the  duties  of  my  new  office,  and 
accustom  myself  to  the  Count's  methods.  A  secretary  neces- 
sarily watches  the  man  who  makes  use  of  him.  That  man's 
tastes,  passions,  temper,  and  manias  become  the  subject  of 
involuntary  study.  The  union  of  their  two  minds  is  at  once 
more  and  less  than  a  marriage. 

"  During  these  months  the  Count  and  I  reciprocally 
studied  each  other.  I  learned  with  astonishment  that  Comte 
Octave  was  but  thirty-seven  years  old.  The  merely  superficial 
peacefulness  of  his  life  and  the  propriety  of  his  conduct  were 
the  outcome  not  solely  of  a  deep  sense  of  duty  and  of  stoical 
reflection  ;  in  my  constant  intercourse  with  this  man — an 
extraordinary  man  to  those  who  knew  him  well — I  felt  vast 
depths  beneath  his  toil,  beneath  his  acts  of  politeness,  his 
mask  of  benignity,  his  assumption  of  resignation,  which  so 
closely  resembled  calmness  that  it  was  easy  to  mistake  it. 
Just  as  when  walking  through  forest  lands  certain  soils  give 


HONORINE.  305 

forth  under  our  feet  a  sound  which  enables  us  to  guess  whether 
they  are  dense  masses  of  stone  or  a  void  ;  so  intense  egoism, 
though  hidden  under  the  flowers  of  politeness,  and  subterra- 
nean caverns  eaten  out  by  sorrow  sound  hollow  under  the 
constant  touch  of  familiar  life.  It  was  sorrow  and  not  de- 
spondency that  dwelt  in  that  really  great  soul.  The  Count 
had  understood  that  actions,  deeds,  are  the  supreme  law  of 
social  man.  And  he  went  on  his  way  in  spite  of  secret 
wounds,  looking  to  the  future  with  a  tranquil  eye,  like  a 
martyr  full  of  faith. 

"  His  concealed  sadness,  the  bitter  disenchantment  from 
which  he  suffered,  had  not  led  him  into  philosophical  deserts 
of  incredulity  ;  this  brave  statesman  was  religious,  but  without 
ostentation ;  he  always  attended  the  earliest  mass  at  Saint- 
Paul's  for  pious  workmen  and  servants.  Not  one  of  his  friends, 
no  one  at  court,  knew  that  he  so  punctually  fulfilled  the  prac- 
tice of  religion.  He  was  addicted  to  God  as  some  men  are 
addicted  to  a  vice,  with  the  greatest  mystery.  Thus  one  day 
I  came  to  find  the  Count  at  the  summit  of  an  Alp  of  woe 
much  higher  than  that  on  which  many  are  who  think  them- 
selves the  most  tried ;  who  laugh  at  the  passions  and  the 
beliefs  of  others  because  they  have  conquered  their  own  ;  who 
play  variations  in  every  key  of  irony  and  disdain.  He  did 
not  mock  at  those  who  still  follow  hope  into  the  swamps 
whither  she  leads,  nor  those  who  climb  a  peak  to  be  alone, 
nor  those  who  persist  in  the  fight,  reddening  the  arena  with 
their  blood  and  strewing  it  with  their  illusions.  He  looked 
on  the  world  as  a  whole ;  he  mastered  its  beliefs ;  he  listened 
to  its  complaining ;  he  was  doubtful  of  affection,  and  yet 
more  of  self-sacrifice ;  but  this  great  and  stern  judge  pitied 
them,  or  admired  them,  not  with  transient  enthusiasm,  but 
with  silence,  concentration,  and  the  communion  of  a  deeply 
touched  soul.  He  was  a  sort  of  catholic  Manfred,  and  un- 
stained by  crime,  carrying  his  choiceness  into  his  faith, 
melting  the  snows  by  all  the  deeply  hidden  and  smoldering 
20 


306  HONORINE. 

fires  of  a  sealed  volcano,  holding  converse  with  a  star  seen 
by  himself  alone  ! 

"  I  detected  many  dark  riddles  in  his  ordinary  life.  He 
evaded  my  gaze,  not  like  a  traveler  who,  following  a  path, 
disappears  from  time  to  time  in  dells  or  ravines  according  to 
the  formation  of  the  soil,  but  like  a  sharpshooter  who  is 
being  watched,  who  wants  to  hide  himself,  and  seeks  a  cover. 
I  could  not  account  for  his  frequent  absences  at  times  when 
he  was  working  the  hardest,  and  of  which  he  made  no  secret 
from  me,  for  he  would  say,  '  Go  on  with  this  for  me,'  and 
trust  me  with  the  work  in  hand. 

"This  man,  wrapped  in  the  threefold  duties  of  the  states- 
man, the  judge,  and  the  orator,  charmed  me  by  a  taste  for 
flowers,  which  shows  an  elegant  mind,  and  which  is  shared  by 
almost  all  persons  of  refinement.  His  garden  and  his  study 
were  full  of  the  rarest  plants,  but  he  always  bought  them  half- 
withered.  Perhaps  it  pleased  him  to  see  such  an  image  of  his 
own  fate  !  He  was  faded  like  these  dying  flowers,  whose  almost 
decaying  fragrance  mounted  strangely  to  his  brain.  The 
Count  loved  his  country  ;  he  devoted  himself  to  public  inter- 
ests with  the  frenzy  of  a  heart  that  seeks  to  cheat  some  other 
passion  ;  but  the  studies  and  work  into  which  he  threw  him- 
self were  not  enough  for  him ;  there  were  frightful  struggles 
in  his  mind,  of  which  some  echoes  reached  me.  Finally,  he 
would  give  utterance  to  harrowing  aspirations  for  happiness, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  he  ought  yet  to  be  happy;  but  what  was 
the  obstacle  ?  Was  there  a  woman  he  loved  ?  This  was  a 
question  I  asked  myself.  You  may  imagine  the  extent  of  the 
circles  of  torment  that  my  mind  had  searched  before  coming 
to  so  simple  and  so  terrible  a  question.  Notwithstanding  his 
efforts,  my  patron  did  not  succeed  in  stifling  the  movements 
of  his  heart.  Under  his  austere  manner,  under  the  reserve  of 
the  magistrate,  a  passion  rebelled,  though  coerced  with  such 
force  that  no  one  but  I  who  lived  with  him  ever  guessed  the 
secret.  His  motto  seemed  to  be,  'I  suffer  and  am  silent.' 


HONORINE.  30- 

The  escort  of  respect  and  admiration  which  attended  him ; 
the  friendship  of  workers  as  valiant  as  himself—  Grandville 
and  Serizy,  both  presiding  judges — had  no  hold  over  the 
Count :  either  he  told  them  nothing  or  they  knew  all.  Im- 
passible and  lofty  in  public,  the  Count  betrayed  the  man  only 
on  rare  intervals  when,  alone  in  his  garden  or  his  study, 
he  supposed  himself  unobserved;  but  then  he  was  a  child 
again,  he  gave  course  to  the  tears  hidden  beneath  the  toga,  to 
the  excitement  which,  if  wrongly  interpreted,  might  have 
damaged  his  credit  for  perspicacity  as  a  statesman. 

"When  all  this  had  become  tome  a  matter  of  certainty, 
Comte  Octave  had  all  the  attractions  of  a  problem,  and  won 
on  my  affection  as  much  as  though  he  had  been  my  own  father. 
Can  you  enter  into  the  feeling  of  curiosity,  tempered  by  re- 
spect ?  What  catastrophe  had  blasted  this  learned  man,  who, 
like  Pitt,  had  devoted  himself  from  the  age  of  eighteen  to  the 
studies  indispensable  to  power,  while  he  had  no  ambition ; 
this  judge,  who  thoroughly  knew  the  law  of  nations,  political 
law,  civil  and  criminal  law,  and  who  could  find  in  these  a 
weapon  against  every  anxiety,  against  every  mistake ;  this 
profound  legislator,  this  serious  writer,  this  pious  celibate 
whose  life  sufficiently  proved  that  he  was  open  to  no  reproach  ? 
A  criminal  could  not  have  been  more  hardly  punished  by 
God  than  was  my  master ;  sorrow  had  robbed  him  of  half 
his  slumbers ;  he  never  slept  more  than  four  hours.  What 
struggle  was  it  that  went  on  in  the  depths  of  these  hours 
apparently  so  calm,  so  studious,  passing  without  a  sound  or  a 
murmur,  during  which  I  often  detected  him,  when  the  pen 
had  dropped  from  his  fingers,  with  his  head  resting  on  one 
hand,  his  eyes  like  two  fixed  stars,  and  sometimes  wet  with 
tears?  How  could  the  waters  of  that  living  spring  flow  over 
the  burning  strand  without  being  dried  up  by  the  subterranean 
fire?  Was  there  below  it,  as  there  is  under  the  sea,  between 
it  and  the  central  fires  of  the  globe,  a  bed  of  granite?  And 
would  the  volcano  burst  at  last  ? 


308  HONOR1NE. 

"Sometimes  the  Count  would  give  me  a  look  of  that  saga- 
cious and  keen-eyed  curiosity  by  which  one  man  searches 
another  when  he  desires  an  accomplice ;  then  he  shunned  my 
eye  as  he  saw  it  open  a  mouth,  so  to  speak,  insisting  on  a 
reply,  and  seeming  to  say,  '  Speak  first ! '  Now  and  then 
Comte  Octave's  melancholy  was  surly  and  gruff.  If  these 
spurts  of  temper  offended  me,  he  could  get  over  it  without 
thinking  of  asking  my  pardon ;  but  then  his  manners  were 
gracious  to  the  point  of  Christian  humility. 

"  When  I  became  attached  like  a  son  to  this  man — to  me 
such  a  mystery,  but  so  intelligible  to  the  outer  world,  to 
whom  the  epithet  eccentric  is  enough  to  account  for  all  the 
enigmas  of  the  heart — I  changed  the  state  of  the  house. 
Neglect  of  his  own  interests  was  carried  by  the  Count  to  the 
length  of  folly  in  the  management  of  his  affairs.  Possessing 
an  income  of  about  a  hundred  and  sixty  thousand  francs, 
without  including  the  emoluments  of  his  appointments — three 
of  which  did  not  come  under  the  law  against  plurality — he 
spent  sixty  thousand,  of  which  at  least  thirty  thousand  went 
to  his  servants.  By  the  end  of  the  first  year  I  had  rid  him  of 
all  these  rascals,  and  begged  his  excellency  to  use  his  influence 
in  helping  me  to  get  honest  servants.  By  the  end  of  the 
second  year  the  Count,  better  fed  and  better  served,  enjoyed 
the  comforts  of  modern  life  ;  he  had  fine  horses,  supplied  by 
a  coachman  to  whom  I  paid  so  much  a  month  for  each  horse ; 
his  dinners  on  his  reception  days,  furnished  by  Chevet  at  a 
price  agreed  upon,  did  him  credit ;  his  daily  meals  were  pre- 
pared by  an  excellent  cook  found  by  my  uncle,  and  helped 
by  two  kitchen-maids.  The  expenditure  for  housekeeping, 
not  including  purchases,  was  no  more  than  thirty  thousand 
francs  a  year;  we  had  two  additional  menservants,  whose 
care  restored  the  poetical  aspect  of  the  house  ;  for  this  old 
palace,  splendid  even  in  its  rust,  had  an  air  of  dignity  which 
neglect  had  dishonored. 

"  '  I  am  no  longer  astonished,'  said  he,  on  hearing  of  these 


HONORINE,  ;;,,,, 

results,  '  at  the  fortunes  made  by  my  servants.  In  seven 
years  I  have  had  two  cooks,  who  have  become  rich  restaurant- 
keepers.' 

"  '  And  in  seven  years  you  have  lost  a  hundred  thousand 
francs,'  replied  I.  'You,  a  judge,  who  in  your  court  sign 
summonses  against  crime,  encouraged  robbery  in  your  own 
house. ' 

"  Early  in  the  year  1826  the  Count  had,  no  doubt,  ceased 
to  watch  me,  and  we  were  as  closely  attached  as  two  men  can 
be  when  one  is  subordinate  to  the  other.  He  had  never 
spoken  to  me  of  my  future  prospects,  but  he  had  taken  an 
interest,  both  as  a  master  and  as  a  father,  in  training  me. 
He  often  required  me  to  collect  materials  for  his  most  arduous 
labors  ;  I  drew  up  some  of  his  reports  and  he  corrected  them, 
showing  the  difference  between  his  interpretation  of  the  law, 
his  views  and  mine.  When  at  last  I  had  produced  a  docu- 
ment which  he  could  give  in  as  his  own  he  was  delighted ; 
this  satisfaction  was  my  reward,  and  he  could  see  that  I  took 
it  so.  This  little  incident  produced  an  extraordinary  effect 
on  a  soul  which  seemed  so  stern.  The  Count  pronounced 
sentence  on  me,  to  use  a  legal  phrase,  as  supreme  and  royal 
judge  ;  he  took  my  head  in  his  hands,  and  kissed  me  on  the 
forehead. 

"'Maurice,'  he  exclaimed,  'you  are  no  longer  my 
apprentice ;  I  know  not  yet  what  you  will  be  to  me — but  if 
no  change  occurs  in  my  life,  perhaps  you  will  take  the  place 
of  a  son.' 

"  Comte  Octave  had  introduced  me  to  the  best  houses  in 
Paris,  whither  I  went  in  his  stead  with  his  servants  and  car- 
riage, on  the  too  frequent  occasions  when,  on  the  point  of 
starting,  he  changed  his  mind  and  sent  for  a  hackney  cab  to 
take  him— Where?— that  was  the  mystery.  By  the  welcome 
I  met  with  I  could  judge  of  the  Count's  feelings  toward  me 
and  the  earnestness  of  his  recommendations.  He  supplied 
all  my  wants  with  the  thoughtfulness  of  a  father,  and  with  all 


310  HONORINE. 

the  greater  liberality  because  my  modesty  left  it  to  him  always 
to  think  of  me.  Toward  the  end  of  January,  1827,  at  the 
house  of  the  Comtesse  de  Serizy,  I  had  such  persistent  ill- 
luck  at  play  that  I  lost  two  thousand  francs,  and  I  would  not 
draw  them  out  of  my  savings.  Next  morning  I  asked  my- 
self, '  Had  I  better  ask  my  uncle  for  the  money,  or  put  my 
confidence  in  the  Count  ? ' 

"I decided  on  the  second  alternative. 

"'Yesterday,'  I  said,  when  he  was  at  breakfast,  'I  lost 
persistently  at  play ;  I  was  provoked,  and  went  on ;  I  owe 
two  thousand  francs.  Will  you  allow  me  to  draw  the  sum  on 
account  of  my  year's  salary  ?  ' 

"'No,'  said  he,  with  the  sweetest  smile;  'when  a  man 
plays  in  society,  he  must  have  a  gambling  purse.  Draw  six 
thousand  francs ;  pay  your  debts.  Henceforth  we  must  go 
halves ;  for  since  you  are  my  representative  on  most  occasions, 
your  self-respect  must  not  be  made  to  suffer  for  it.' 

"  I  made  no  speech  of  thanks.  Thanks  would  have  been 
superfluous  between  us.  This  shade  shows  the  character  of 
our  relations.  And  as  yet  we  had  not  unlimited  confidence 
in  each  other  ;  he  did  not  open  to  me  the  vast  subterranean 
chambers  which  I  had  detected  in  his  secret  life ;  and  I,  for 
my  part,  never  said  to  him,  '  What  ails  you?  From  what  are 
you  suffering  ? ' 

"What  could  he  be  doing  during  those  long  evenings? 
He  would  often  come  in  on  foot  or  in  a  hackney  cab  when  I 
returned  in  a  carriage — I,  his  secretary  !  Was  so  pious  a  man 
a  prey  to  vices  hidden  under  hypocrisy  ?  Did  he  expend  all 
the  powers  of  his  mind  to  satisfy  a  jealousy  more  dexterous 
than  Othello's?  Did  he  live  with  some  woman  unworthy  of 
him?  One  morning,  on  returning  from  I  have  forgotten 
what  store,  where  I  had  just  paid  a  bill,  between  the  church 
of  Saint-Paul  and  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  I  came  across  Comte 
Octave  in  such  eager  conversation  with  an  old  woman  that  he 
did  not  see  me.  The  appearance  of  this  hag  filled  me  with 


HONORINE.  311 

strange  suspicions,  suspicions  that  were  all  the  better  founded 
because  I  never  found  that  the  Count  invested  his  savings.  Is 
it  not  shocking  to  think  of?  I  was  constituting  myself  my 
patron's  censor.  At  that  time  I  knew  that  he  had  more  than 
six  hundred  thousand  francs  to  invest ;  and  if  he  had  bought 
securities  of  any  kind  his  confidence  in  me  was  so  complete, 
in  all  that  concerned  his  pecuniary  interests,  that  I  certainly 
should  have  known  it. 

"  Sometimes,  in  the  morning,  the  Count  took  exercise  in 
his  garden,  to  and  fro,  like  a  man  to  whom  a  walk  is  the  hip- 
pogryph  ridden  by  dreamy  melancholy.  He  walked  and 
walked  !  And  he  rubbed  his  hands  enough  to  rub  the  skin 
off.  And  then,  if  I  met  him  unexpectedly  as  he  came  to  the 
angle  of  a  path,  I  saw  his  face  beaming.  His  eyes,  instead 
of  the  hardness  of  a  turquoise,  had  that  velvety  softness  of 
the  blue  periwinkle,  which  had  so  much  struck  me  on  the 
occasion  of  my  first  visit,  by  reason  of  the  astonishing  con- 
trast in  the  two  different  looks  :  the  look  of  a  happy  man 
and  the  look  of  an  unhappy  man.  Two  or  three  times  at 
such  a  moment  he  had  taken  me  by  the  arm  and  led  me  on ; 
then  he  had  said,  '  What  have  you  come  to  ask  ?  '  instead  of 
pouring  out  his  joy  into  my  heart  that  opened  to  him.  But 
more  often,  especially  since  I  could  do  his  work  for  him  and 
write  his  reports,  the  unhappy  man  would  sit  for  hours  staring 
at  the  gold  fish  that  swarmed  in  a  handsome  marble  basin  in 
the  middle  of  the  garden,  round  which  grew  an  amphi- 
theatre of  the  finest  flowers.  He,  an  accomplished  states- 
man, seemed  to  have  succeeded  in  making  a  passion,  a  reigning 
hobby,  of  the  mechanical  amusement  of  crumbling  bread  to 

fishes. 

"  This  is  how  the  drama  was  disclosed  of  this  second  inner 
life,  so  deeply  ravaged  and  storm-tossed,  where,  in  a  circle 
overlooked  by  Dante  in  his  « Inferno,'  horrible  joys  had  their 
birth." 

The  consul-general  paused. 


312  HONOR  I NE. 

"On  a  certain  Monday,"  he  resumed,  "as  chance  would 
have  it,  M.  le  President  de  Grandville  and  M.  de  Serizy  (at 
that  time  vice-president  of  the  council  of  state)  had  come  to 
hold  a  meeting  at  the  Comte  Octave's  house.  They  formed 
a  committee  of  three,  of  which  I  was  the  secretary.  The 
Count  had  already  gotten  me  the  appointment  of  auditor  to 
the  council  of  state.  All,  the  documents  requisite  for  their 
inquiry  into  the  political  matter  privately  submitted  to  these 
three  gentlemen  were  laid  out  on  one  of  the  long  tables  in 
the  library.  Messrs,  de  Grandville  and  de  Serizy  had  trusted 
to  the  Count  to  make  the  preliminary  examination  of  the 
papers  relating  to  the  matter.  To  avoid  the  necessity  for 
carrying  all  the  papers  to  M.  de  Serizy,  as  president  of  the 
commission,  it  was  decided  that  they  should  meet  first  in 
the  Rue  Payenne.  The  cabinet  at  the  Tuileries  attached 
great  importance  to  this  piece  of  work,  of  which  the  chief 
burden  fell  on  me — and  to  which,  and  my  patron's  efforts,  I 
owed  my  appointment,  in  the  course  of  that  year,  to  be  master 
of  appeals. 

"  Though  the  Comtes  de  Grandville  and  de  Serizy,  whose 
habits  were  much  the  same  as  my  patron's,  never  dined  away 
from  home,  we  were  still  discussing  the  matter  at  a  late  hour, 
when  we  were  startled  by  the  manservant  calling  me  aside  to 
say,  '  Messrs,  the  Cures  of  Saint-Paul  and  of  the  White  Friars 
have  been  waiting  in  the  drawing-room  for  two  hours.' 

"  It  was  nine  o'clock. 

"  'Well,  gentlemen,  you  find  yourselves  compelled  to  dine 
with  priests,'  said  Comte  Octave  to  his  colleagues.  '  I  do 
not  know  whether  Grandville  can  overcome  his  horror  of  a 
priest's  gown ' 

"  '  It  depends  on  the  priest.' 

" '  One  of  them  is  my  uncle  and  the  other  is  the  Abbe 
Gaudron,'  said  I.  '  Do  not  be  alarmed  ;  the  Abbe  Fontanon 
is  no  longer  second  priest  at  Saint-Paul ' 

"  'Well,  let  us  dine,'  replied  the  President  de  Grandville, 


HONORINE.  oi:j 

'  A  bigot  frightens  me,  but  there  is  no  one  so  cheerful  as  a 
truly  pious  man.' 

"  We  went  into  the  drawing-room.  The  dinner  was  de- 
lightful. Men  of  real  information,  politicians  to  whom  busi- 
ness gives  both  consummate  experience  and  the  practice  of 
speech,  are  admirable  story-tellers,  when  they  tell  stories. 
With  them  there  is  no  medium;  they  are  either  heavy  or 
they  are  sublime.  In  this  delightful  sport  Prince  Metternich 
is  as  good  as  Charles  Nodier.  The  fun  of  a  statesman,  cut  in 
facets  like  a  diamond,  is  sharp,  sparkling,  and  full  of  sense. 
Being  sure  that  the  proprieties  would  be  observed  by  these 
three  superior  men,  my  uncle  allowed  his  wit  full  play,  a 
refined  wit,  gentle,  penetrating,  and  elegant,  like  that  of  all 
men  who  are  accustomed  to  conceal  their  thoughts  under  the 
black  robe.  And  you  may  rely  upon  it,  there  was  nothing 
vulgar  nor  idle  in  this  light  talk,  which  I  would  compare,  for 
its  effect  on  the  soul,  to  Rossini's  music. 

"  The  Abbe  Gaudron  was,  as  M.  de  Grandville  said,  a 
Saint  Peter  rather  than  a  Saint  Paul,  a  peasant  full  of  faith,  as 
square  on  his  feet  as  he  was  tall,  a  sacerdotal  of  whose  ignor- 
ance in  matters  of  the  world  and  of  literature  enlivened  the 
conversation  by  guileless  amazement  and  unexpected  ques- 
tions. They  came  to  talking  of  one  of  the  plague  spots  of 
social  life,  of  which  we  were  just  now  speaking — adultery. 
My  uncle  remarked  on  the  contradiction  which  the  legisla- 
tors of  the  code,  still  feeling  the  blows  of  the  revolutionary 
storm,  had  established  between  civil  and  religious  law,  and 
which  he  maintained  and  insisted  was  at  the  root  of  all  the 
mischief. 

'"In  the  eyes  of  the  church,'  said  he,  '  adultery  is  a  crime ; 
in  those  of  your  tribunals  it  is  a  misdemeanor.  Adultery 
drives  to  the  police  court  in  a  carriage  instead  of  standing  at 
the  bar  to  be  tried.  Napoleon's  council  of  state,  touched 
with  tenderness  toward  erring  women,  was  quite  inefficient. 
Ought  they  not  in  this  case  tp  have  harmonized  the  civil  and 


314  HONORINE. 

the  religious  law,  and  have  sent  the  guilty  wife  to  a  convent, 
as  of  old  ? ' 

"  '  To  a  convent!'  said  M.  de  Serizy.  'They  must  first 
have  created  convents,  and  in  those  days  monasteries  were 
being  turned  into  barracks.  Beside,  think  of  what  you  say, 
Monsieur  1'Abbe —  give  to  God  what  society  would  have 
none  of  ?  ' 

"  '  Oh  ! '  said  the  Comte  de  Grand ville,  '  you  do  not  know 
France.  They  were  obliged  to  leave  the  husband  free  to  take 
proceedings ;  well,  there  are  not  ten  cases  of  adultery  brought 
up  in  a  year. ' 

"  '  M.  1'Abbe  preaches  for  his  own  saint,  for  it  was  Jesus 
Christ  who  invented  adultery,'  said  Comte  Octave.  '  In  the 
East,  the  cradle  of  the  human  race,  woman  was  merely  a 
luxury,  and  was  there  regarded  as  a  chattel ;  no  virtues  were 
demanded  of  her  but  obedience  and  beauty.  By  exalting  the 
soul  above  the  body,  the  modern  family  in  Europe — a  daughter 
of  Christ — invented  indissoluble  marriage  and  made  it  a 
sacrament.' 

"'Ah!  the  church  saw  all  the  difficulties,'  exclaimed  M. 
de  Grandville. 

"'This  institution  has  given  rise  to  a  new  world,'  the 
Count  went  on  with  a  smile.  '  But  the  practice  of  that  world 
will  never  be  that  of  a  climate  where  women  are  marriageable 
at  seven  years  of  age  and  more  than  old  at  five-and-twenty. 
The  Catholic  Church  overlooked  the  needs  of  half  the  globe. 
So  let  us  discuss  Europe  only. 

"  '  Is  woman  our  superior  or  our  inferior  ?  That  is  the  real 
question  so  far  as  we  are  concerned.  If  woman  is  our  inferior, 
by  placing  her  on  so  high  a  level  as  the  church  does,  fearful 
punishment  for  adultery  were  needful.  And  formerly  that 
was  what  was  done.  The  cloister  or  death  sums  up  early 
legislation.  But  since  then  practice  has  modified  the  law,  as 
is  always  the  case.  The  throne  served  as  a  hot-bed  for  adultery, 
and  the  increase  of  this  inviting  crime  marks  the  decline  of 


HONORINE.  315 

the  dogmas  of  the  Catholic  Church.  In  these  days,  in  cases 
where  the  church  now  exacts  no  more  than  sincere  repent- 
ance from  the  erring  wife,  society  is  satisfied  with  a  brand- 
mark  instead  of  an  execution.  The  law  still  condemns  the 
guilty,  but  it  no  longer  terrifies  them.  In  short,  there  are  two 
standards  of  morals :  that  of  the  world  and  that  of  the  code. 
Where  the  code  is  weak,  as  I  admit  with  our  dear  abbe,  the 
world  is  audacious  and  satirical.  There  are  so  few  judges 
who  would  not  gladly  have  committed  the  fault  against  which 
they  hurl  the  rather  stolid  thunders  of  their  "Inasmuch." 
The  world,  which  gives  the  lie  to  the  law  alike  in  its  rejoic- 
ings, in  its  habits,  and  in  its  pleasures,  is  severer  than  the 
code  and  the  church ;  the  world  punishes  a  blunder  after 
encouraging  hypocrisy.  The  whole  economy  of  the  law  on 
marriage  seems  to  me  to  require  reconstruction  from  the 
bottom  to  the  top.  The  French  law  would  be  perfect  perhaps 
if  it  excluded  daughters  from  inheriting.' 

"  '  We  three  among  us  know  the  question  very  thoroughly,' 
said  the  Comte  de  Grandville  with  a  laugh.  '  I  have  a  wife  I 
cannot  live  with.  Serizy  has  a  wife  who  will  not  live  with 
him.  As  for  you,  Octave,  yours  ran  away  from  you.  So  we 
three  represent  every  case  of  the  conjugal  conscience,  and,  no 
doubt,  if  ever  divorce  is  brought  in  again,  we  shall  form  the 
committee.' 

"Octave's  fork  dropped  on  his  glass,  broke  it,  and  broke 
his  plate.  He  had  turned  pale  as  death,  and  flashed  a 
thunderous  glare  at  M.  de  Grandville,  by  which  he  hinted  at 
my  presence,  and  which  I  caught. 

"  '  Forgive  me,  my  dear  fellow.  I  did  not  see  Maurice,' 
the  president  went  on.  '  Serizy  and  I,  after  being  the  wit- 
nesses to  your  marriage,  became  your  accomplices ;  I  did  not 
think  I  was  committing  an  indiscretion  in  the  presence  of 
these  two  venerable  priests.' 

"  M.  de  Serizy  changed  the  subject  by  relating  all  he  1 
done  to  please  his  wife  without  ever  succeeding.    The  old 


316  HONORINE. 

man  concluded  that  it  was  impossible  to  regulate  human  sym- 
pathies and  antipathies ;  he  maintained  that  social  law  was 
never  more  perfect  than  when  it  was  nearest  to  natural  law. 
Now,  nature  takes  no  account  of  the  affinities  of  souls;  her 
aim  is  fulfilled  by  the  propagation  of  the  species.  Hence, 
the  code,  in  its  present  form,  was  wise  in  leaving  a  wide  lat- 
itude to  chance.  The  incapacity  of  daughters  to  inherit  so 
long  as  there  were  male  heirs  was  an  excellent  provision, 
whether  to  hinder  the  degeneration  of  the  race,  or  to  make 
households  happier  by  abolishing  scandalous  unions  and  giving 
the  sole  preference  to  moral  qualities  and  beauty. 

"  '  But  then,'  he  exclaimed,  lifting  his  hand  with  a  gesture 
of  disgust,  '  how  are  we  to  perfect  legislation  in  a  country 
which  insists  on  bringing  together  seven  or  eight  hundred 
legislators?  After  all,  if  I  am  sacrificed,'  he  added,  'I  have 
a  child  to  succeed  me.' 

"'Setting  aside  all  the  religious  question,'  my  uncle  said, 
'  I  would  remark  to  your  excellency  that  nature  only  owes  us 
life,  and  that  it  is  society  that  owes  us  happiness.  Are  you  a 
father  ?  '  asked  my  uncle. 

"  '  And  I — have  I  any  children  ? '  said  Comte  Octave  in  a 
hollow  voice,  and  his  tone  made  such  an  impression  that 
there  was  no  more  talk  of  wives  or  marriage. 

"When  coffee  had  been  served,  the  two  Counts  and  the 
two  priests  stole  away,  seeing  that  poor  Octave  had  fallen 
into  a  fit  of  melancholy,  which  prevented  his  noticing  their 
disappearance.  My  patron  was  sitting  in  an  armchair  by  the 
fire,  in  the  attitude  of  a  man  crushed. 

"  'You  now  know  the  secret  of  my  life,'  said  he  to  me  on 
noticing  that  we  were  alone.  '  After  three  years  of  married 
life,  one  evening  when  I  came  in  I  found  a  letter  in  which 
the  Countess  announced  her  flight.  The  letter  did  not  lack 
dignity,  for  it  is  in  the  nature  of  women  to  preserve  some 
virtues  even  when  committing  that  horrible  sin.  The  story 
now  is  that  my  wife  went  abrpad  ir»  a  ship  that  was  wrecked  \ 


she  is  supposed  to  be  dead.  I  have  lived  alone  for  seven  years ! 
Enough  for  this  evening,  Maurice.  We  will  talk  of  my  situ- 
ation when  I  have  grown  used  to  the  idea  of  speaking  of  it 
to  you.  When  we  suffer  from  a  chronic  disease,  it  needs 
time  to  become  accustomed  to  improvement.  That  improve- 
ment often  seems  to  be  merely  another  aspect  of  the  com- 
plaint.' 

"I  went  to  bed  greatly  agitated;  for  the  mystery,  far 
from  being  explained,  seemed  to  me  more  obscure  than  ever. 
I  foresaw  some  strange  drama  indeed,  for  I  understood  that 
there  could  be  no  vulgar  difference  between  the  woman  the 
Count  could  choose  and  such  a  character  as  his.  The  events 
which  had  driven  the  Countess  to  leave  a  man  so  noble,  so 
amiable,  so  perfect,  so  loving,  so  worthy  to  be  loved,  must 
have  been  singular,  to  say  the  least.  M.  de  Grandville's  re- 
mark  had  been  like  a  torch  flung  into  the  caverns  over  which 
I  had  so  long  been  walking ;  and  though  the  flame  lighted 
them  but  dimly,  my  eyes  could  perceive  their  wide  extent ! 
I  could  imagine  the  Count's  sufferings  without  knowing  their 
depth  or  their  bitterness.  That  sallow  face,  those  parched 
temples,  those  overwhelming  studies,  those  moments  of  ab- 
sent-mindedness, the  smallest  details  of  the  life  of  this 
married  bachelor,  all  stood  out  in  luminous  relief  during 
the  hour  of  mental  questioning,  which  is,  as  it  were,  the  twi- 
light before  sleep,  and  to  which  any  man  would  have  given 
himself  up,  as  I  did. 

"  Oh  !  how  I  loved  my  poor  master!  He  seemed  to  me 
sublime.  I  read  a  poem  of  melancholy,  I  saw  perpetual 
activity  in  the  heart  I  had  accused  of  being  torpid.  Must 
not  supreme  grief  always  come  at  last  to  stagnation  ?  Had 
this  judge,  who  had  so  much  in  his  power,  ever  revenged 
himself?  Was  he  feeding  himself  on  her  long  agony  ?  Is  it 
not  a  remarkable  thing  in  Paris  to  keep  anger  always  seething 
for  ten  years?  What  had  Octave  done  since  this  great 
misfortune — for  the  separation  of  husband  and  wife  is  a  great 


318  HONORINE. 

misfortune  in  our  day,  when  domestic  life  has  become  a  social 
question,  which  it  never  was  of  old  ? 

"  We  allowed  a  few  days  to  pass  on  the  watch,  for  great 
sorrows  have  a  diffidence  of  their  own ;  but  at  last,  one  even- 
ing, the  Count  said  in  a  grave  voice — 

"  '  Stay.' 

"  This,  as  nearly  as  may  be,  is  his  story  : 

"  '  My  father  had  a  ward,  rich  and  lovely,  who  was  sixteen 
at  the  time  when  I  came  back  from  college  to  live  in  this  old 
house.  Honorine,  who  had  been  brought  up  by  my  mother, 
was  just  awaking  to  life.  Full  of  grace  and  of  childlike  ways, 
she  dreamed  of  happiness  as  she  would  have  dreamed  of 
jewels;  perhaps  happiness  seemed  to  her  the  jewels  of  the 
soul.  Her  piety  was  not  free  from  puerile  pleasures ;  for 
everything,  even  religion,  was  poetry  to  her  ingenuous  heart. 
She  looked  to  the  future  as  a  perpetual  fete.  Innocent  and 
pure,  no  delirium  had  disturbed  her  dream.  Shame  and  grief 
had  never  tinged  her  cheek  nor  moistened  her  eye.  She  did 
not  even  inquire  into  the  secret  of  her  involuntary  emotions 
on  a  fine  spring  day.  And,  then,  she  felt  that  she  was  weak 
and  destined  to  obedience,  and  she  awaited  marriage  without 
wishing  for  it.  Her  smiling  imagination  knew  nothing  of  the 
corruption — necessary  perhaps — which  literature  imparts  by 
depicting  the  passions ;  she  knew  nothing  of  the  world,  and 
was  ignorant  of  all  the  dangers  of  society.  The  dear  child  had 
suffered  so  little  that  she  had  not  even  developed  her  courage. 
In  short,  her  guilelessness  would  have  led  her  to  walk  fear- 
lessly among  serpents,  like  the  ideal  figure  of  Innocence  a 
painter  once  created.  We  lived  together  like  two  brothers. 
An  ideal  life. 

"  '  At  the  end  of  a  year  I  said  to  her  one  day,  in  the  garden 
of  this  house,  by  the  basin,  as  we  stood  throwing  crumbs  to 
the  fish— 

"  <  "  Would  you  like  that  we  should  be  married  ?    With  me 


HONOR1NE.  319 

you  could  do  whatever  you  please,  while  another  man  would 
make  you  unhappy." 

"  '  "  Mamma,"  said  she  to  my  mother,  who  came  out  to 
join  us,  "  Octave  and  I  have  agreed  to  be  married " 

«"  "  What !  at  seventeen  ?  "  said  my  mother.  "  No ;  you 
must  wait  eighteen  months  ;  and  if  eighteen  months  hence 
you  like  each  other,  well,  your  birth  and  fortunes  are  equal, 
you  can  make  a  marriage  which  is  suitable,  as  well  as  being  a 
love  match." 

"  '  When  I  was  six-and- twenty  and  Honorine  nineteen,  we 
were  married.  Our  respect  for  my  father  and  mother,  old 
folk  of  the  Bourbon  court,  hindered  us  from  making  this 
house  fashionable  or  renewing  the  furniture;  we  lived  on, 
as  we  had  done  in  the  past,  as  children.  However,  I  went 
into  society ;  I  initiated  my  wife  into  the  world  of  fashion ; 
and  I  regarded  it  as  one  of  my  duties  to  instruct  her. 

"  •'  I  recognized  afterward  that  marriages  contracted  under 
such  circumstances  as  ours  bear  in  themselves  a  rock  against 
which  many  affections  are  wrecked,  many  prudent  calcula- 
tions, many  lives.  The  husband  becomes  a  pedagogue,  or, 
if  you  like,  a  professor,  and  love  perishes  under  the  rod  which, 
soon  or  later,  gives  pain  ;  for  a  young  and  handsome  wife,  at 
once  discreet  and  laughter-loving,  will  not  accept  any  superi- 
ority above  that  with  which  she  is  endowed  by  nature.  Per- 
haps I  was  in  the  wrong.  During  the  difficult  beginnings  of 
a  household  I,  perhaps,  assumed  a  magisterial  tone.  On  the 
other  hand,  I  may  have  made  the  mistake  of  trusting  too 
entirely  to  that  artless  nature ;  I  kept  no  watch  over  the 
Countess,  in  whom  revolt  seemed  to  me  impossible.  Alas! 
neither  in  politics  nor  domestic  life  has  it  yet  been  ascertained 
whether  empires  and  happiness  are  wrecked  by  too  much 
confidence  or  too  much  severity !  Perhaps,  again,  the  hus- 
band failed  to  realize  Honorine's  girlish  dreams?  Who  can 
tell,  while  happy  days  last,  what  precepts  he  has  neglected.' 

"  I  remember  only  the  broad  outlines  of  the  reproaches  the 


320  HONORING. 

Count  addressed  to  himself,  with  all  the  good  faith  of  an 
anatomist  seeking  the  cause  of  a  disease  which  might  be  over- 
looked by  his  brethren;  but  his  merciful  indulgence  struck 
me  then  as  equally  worthy  as  that  of  Jesus  Christ  when  He 
rescued  the  woman  taken  in  adultery. 

" '  It  was  eighteen  months  after  my  father's  death — my 
mother  followed  him  to  the  tomb  in  a  few  months — when  the 
fearful  night  came  which  surprised  me  by  Honorine's  farewell 
letter.  What  poetic  delusion  had  seduced  my  wife  ?  Was  it 
through  her  senses?  Was  it  the  magnetism  of  misfortune  or 
of  genius  ?  Which  of  these  powers  had  taken  her  by  storm 
or  misled  her?  I  would  not  know.  The  blow  was  so  ter- 
rible that  for  a  month  I  remained  stunned.  Afterward,  re- 
flection counseled  me  to  continue  in  ignorance,  and  Hono- 
rine's misfortunes  have  since  taught  me  too  much  about  all 
these  things.  So  far,  Maurice,  the  story  is  commonplace 
enough ;  but  one  word  will  change  it  all :  I  love  Honorine, 
I  have  never  ceased  to  worship  her.  From  the  day  when  she 
left  me  I  have  lived  on  memory ;  one  by  one  I  recall  the 
pleasures  for  which  Honorine,  no  doubt,  had  no  taste. 

"  '  Oh  ! '  said  he,  seeing  the  amazement  in  my  eyes,  'do 
not  make  a  hero  of  me,  do  not  think  me  such  a  fool,  as  a 
colonel  of  the  Empire  would  say,  as  to  have  sought  no  diver- 
sion. Alas,  my  boy  !  I  was  either  too  young  or  too  much  in 
love;  I  have  not  in  the  whole  world  met  with  another  woman. 
After  frightful  struggles  with  myself,  I  tried  to  forget ;  money 
in  hand,  I  stood  on  the  very  threshold  of  infidelity,  but  there 
the  memory  of  Honorine  rose  before  me  like  a  white  statue. 
As  I  recalled  the  infinite  delicacy  of  that  exquisite  skin, 
through  which  the  blood  might  be  seen  coursing  and  the 
nerves  quivering ;  as  I  saw  in  fancy  that  ingenuous  face,  as 
guileless  on  the  eve  of  my  sorrows  as  on  the  day  when  I  said 
to  her,  "Shall  we  marry?"  as  I  remembered  a  heavenly 
fragrance,  the  very  odor  of  virtue,  and  the  light  in  her  eyes, 
the  prettiness  of  her  movements,  I  fled  like  a  man  preparing 


HONORINE.  3.n 

to  violate  a  tomb,  who  sees  emerging  from  it  the  transfigured 
soul  of  the  dead.  At  consultations,  in  court,  by  night,  I 
dream  so  incessantly  of  Honorine  that  only  by  excessive 
strength  of  mind  do  I  succeed  in  attending  to  what  I  am 
doing  and  saying.  This  is  the  secret  of  my  labors. 

"  '  Well,  I  felt  no  more  anger  with  her  than  a  father  can 
feel  on  seeing  his  beloved  child  in  some  danger  it  has  im- 
prudently rushed  into.  I  understood  that  I  had  made  a 
poem  of  my  wife — a  poem  I  delighted  in  with  such  intoxica- 
tion that  I  fancied  she  shared  the  intoxication.  Ah  !  Mau- 
rice, an  indiscriminating  passion  in  a  husband  is  a  mistake 
that  may  lead  to  any  crime  in  a  wife.  I  had  no  doubt  left 
all  the  faculties  of  this  child,  loved  as  a  child,  entirely  un- 
employed ;  I  had  perhaps  wearied  her  with  my  love  before  the 
hour  of  loving  had  struck  for  her !  Too  young  to  understand 
that  in  the  constancy  of  the  wife  lies  the  germ  of  the  mother's 
devotion,  she  mistook  this  first  test  of  marriage  for  life  itself, 
and  the  refractory  child  cursed  life,  unknown  to  me,  not  dar- 
ing to  complain  to  me,  out  of  sheer  modesty  perhaps !  In  so 
cruel  a  position  she  would  be  defenseless  against  any  man  who 
stirred  her  deeply.  And  I,  so  wise  a  judge  as  they  say — I, 
who  have  a  kind  heart,  but  whose  mind  was  absorbed — I  un- 
derstood too  late  these  unwritten  laws  of  the  woman's  code; 
I  read  them  by  the  light  of  the  fire  that  wrecked  my  roof. 
Then  I  constituted  my  heart  a  tribunal  by  virtue  of  the  law, 
for  the  law  makes  the  husband  a  judge  :  I  acquitted  my  wife, 
and  I  condemned  myself.  But  love  took  possession  of  me  as 
a  passion,  the  mean,  despotic  passion  which  comes  over  some 
old  men.  At  this  day  I  love  the  absent  Honorine  as  a  man 
of  sixty  loves  a  woman  whom  he  must  possess  at  any  cost, 
and  yet  I  feel  the  strength  of  a  young  man.  I  have  the  in- 
solence of  the  old  man  and  the  reserve  of  a  boy.  My  dear 
fellow,  society  only  laughs  at  such  a  desperate  conjugal  pre- 
dicament. Where  it  pities  a  lover,  it  regards  a  husband  as 
ridiculously  inept ;  it  makes  sport  of  those  who  cannot  keep 
21 


322  HONORINE. 

the  woman  they  have  secured  under  the  canopy  of  the  church 
and  before  the  mayor's  scarf  of  office.  And  I  had  to  keep 
silence. 

"  '  Serizy  is  happy.  His  indulgence  allows  him  to  see  his 
wife  ;  he  can  protect  and  defend  her ;  and,  as  he  adores  her, 
he  knows  all  the  perfect  joys  of  a  benefactor  whom  nothing 
can  disturb,  not  even  ridicule,  for  he  pours  it  himself  on  his 
fatherly  pleasures.  "  I  remain  married  only  for  my  wife's 
sake,"  he  said  to  me  one  day  on  coming  out  of  court. 

"  '  But  I — I  have  nothing ;  I  have  not  even  to  face  ridicule, 
I  who  live  solely  on  a  love  which  is  starving  !  I  who  can 
never  find  a  word  to  say  to  a  woman  of  the  world  !  I  who 
loathe  prostitution  !  I  who  am  faithful  under  a  spell !  But 
for  my  religious  faith,  I  should  have  killed  myself.  I  have 
defied  the  gulf  of  hard  work ;  I  have  thrown  myself  into  it, 
and  come  out  again  alive,  fevered,  burning,  ever  bereft  of 
sleep ! ' 

"  I  cannot  remember  all  the  words  of  this  eloquent  man,  to 
whom  passion  gave  an  eloquence  indeed  so  far  above  that  of 
the  pleader  that,  as  I  listened  to  him,  I,  like  him,  felt  my 
cheeks  wet  with  tears.  You  may  conceive  of  my  feelings 
when,  after  a  pause,  during  which  we  dried  them  away,  he 
finished  his  story  with  this  revelation: 

"  '  This  is  the  drama  of  my  soul,  but  it  is  not  the  actual 
living  drama  which  is  at  this  moment  being  acted  in  Paris  ! 
The  interior  drama  interests  nobody.  I  know  it ;  and  you 
will  one  day  admit  that  it  is  so,  you,  who  at  this  moment 
shed  tears  with  me  ;  no  one  can  burden  his  heart  or  his  skin 
with  another's  pain.  The  measure  of  our  sufferings  is  in  our- 
selves. You  even  understand  my  sorrows  only  by  very  vague 
analogy.  Could  you  see  me  calming  the  most  violent  frenzy 
of  despair  by  the  contemplation  of  a  miniature  in  which  I 
can  see  and  kiss  her  brow,  the  smile  on  her  lips,  the  shape  of 
her  face,  can  breathe  the  whiteness  of  her  skin  ;  which  enables 
me  almost  to  feel,  to  play  with  the  black  masses  of  her  curling 


HONORINE. 

hair  ?  Could  you  see  me  when  I  leap  with  hope— when  I 
writhe  under  the  myriad  darts  of  despair—when  I  tramp 
through  the  mire  of  Paris  to  quell  my  irritation  by  fatigue  ? 
I  have  fits  of  collapse  comparable  to  those  of  a  consumptive 
patient,  moods  of  wild  hilarity,  terrors  as  of  a  murderer  who 
meets  a  sergeant  of  police.  In  short,  my  life  is  a  continual 
paroxysm  of  fears,  joy,  and  dejection. 

'"As  to  the  drama— it  is  this:  You  imagine  that  I  am 
occupied  with  the  council  of  state,  the  chamber,  the  courts, 
politics.  Why,  dear  me,  seven  hours  at  night  are  enough  for 
all  that,  so  much  are  my  faculties  overwrought  by  the  life  I 
lead  !  Honorine  is  my  real  concern.  To  recover  my  wife  is 
my  only  study ;  to  guard  her  in  her  cage,  without  her  sus- 
pecting that  she  is  in  my  power;  to  satisfy  her  needs,  to  sup- 
ply  the  little  pleasure  she  allows  herself,  to  be  always  about 
her  like  a  sylph  without  allowing  her  to  see  or  to  suspect  me, 
for,  if  she  did,  the  future  would  be  lost — that  is  my  life,  my 
true  life.  For  seven  years  I  have  never  gone  to  bed  without 
going  first  to  see  the  light  of  her  night-lamp  or  her  shadow 
on  the  window  curtains. 

"  '  She  left  my  house,  choosing  to  take  nothing  but  the 
dress  she  wore  that  day.  The  child  carried  her  magnanimity 
to  the  point  of  folly  !  Consequently,  eighteen  months  after 
her  flight  she  was  deserted  by  her  lover,  who  was  appalled  by 
the  cold,  cruel,  sinister,  and  revolting  aspect  of  poverty — the 
coward  !  The  man  had,  no  doubt,  counted  on  the  easy  and 
luxurious  life  in  Switzerland  or  Italy  which  fine  ladies  indulge 
in  when  they  leave  their  husbands.  Honorine  has  sixty 
thousand  francs  a  year  of  her  own.  The  wretch  left  the  dear 
creature  expecting  an  infant,  and  without  a  penny.  In  the 
month  of  November,  1820,  I  found  means  to  persuade  the 
best  accoucheur  in  Paris  to  play  the  part  of  a  humble  suburban 
apothecary.  I  induced  the  priest  of  the  parish  in  which  the 
Countess  was  living  to  supply  her  needs  as  though  he  were 
performing  an  act  of  charity.  Then  to  hide  my  wife,  to 


324  HONORINE. 

secure  her  against  discovery,  to  find  her  a  housekeeper  who 
would  be  devoted  to  me  and  be  my  intelligent  confidante — it 
was  a  task  worthy  of  Figaro  !  You  may  suppose  that  to  dis- 
cover where  my  wife  had  taken  refuge  I  had  only  to  make  up 
my  mind  to  it. 

"  '  After  three  months  of  desperation  rather  than  despair, 
the  idea  of  devoting  myself  to  Honorine,  with  God  only  in 
my  secret,  was  one  of  those  poems  which  occur  only  to  the 
heart  of  a  lover  through  life  and  death  !  Love  must  have  its 
daily  food.  And  ought  I  not  to  protect  this  child,  whose 
guilt  was  the  outcome  of  my  imprudence,  against  fresh  dis- 
aster— to  fulfill  my  part,  in  short,  as  a  guardian  angel  ?  At 
the  age  of  seven  months  her  infant  died,  happily  for  her  and 
for  me.  For  nine  months  more  my  wife  lay  between  life  and 
death,  deserted  at  the  time  when  she  most  needed  a  manly 
arm;  but  this  arm,'  said  he,  holding  out  his  own  with  a 
gesture  of  angelic  dignity,  '  was  extended  over  her  head. 
Honorine  was  nursed  as  she  would  have  been  in  her  own 
home.  When,  on  her  recovery,  she  asked  how  and  by  whom 
she  had  been  assisted,  she  was  told — "  By  the  sisters  of  charity 
in  the  neighborhood — by  the  maternity  society — by  the  parish 
priest,  who  took  an  interest  in  her." 

"  '  This  woman,  whose  pride  amounts  to  a  vice,  has  shown 
a  power  of  resistance  in  misfortune,  which  on  some  evenings 
I  call  the  obstinacy  of  a  mule.  Honorine  was  bent  on  earn- 
ing her  living.  My  wife  works  !  For  five  years  past  I  have 
lodged  her  in  the  Rue  Saint-Maur,  in  a  charming  little  house, 
where  she  makes  artificial  flowers  and  articles  of  fashion. 
She  believes  that  she  sells  the  product  of  her  elegant  fancy- 
work  to  a  shop,  where  she  is  so  well  paid  that  she  makes 
twenty  francs  a  day,  and  in  these  six  years  she  has  never  had 
a  moment's  suspicion.  She  pays  for  everything  she  needs  at 
about  the  third  of  its  value,  so  that  on  six  thousand  francs  a 
year  she  lives  as  if  she  had  fifteen  thousand.  She  is  devoted 
to  flowers,  and  pays  a  hundred  crowns  to  a  gardener,  who 


HONORINE.  39- 

costs  me  twelve  hundred  in  wages  and  sends  me  in  a  bill  for 
two  thousand  francs  every  three  months.  I  have  promised  the 
man  a  market-garden  with  a  house  on  it  close  to  the  porter's 
lodge  in  the  Rue  Saint-Maur.  I  hold  this  ground  in  the  name 
of  a  clerk  of  the  law  courts.  The  smallest  indiscretion  would 
ruin  the  gardener's  prospects.  Honorine  has  her  little  house, 
a  garden,  and  a  splendid  hot-house,  for  a  rent  of  five  hundred 
francs  a  year.  There  she  lives  under  the  name  of  her  house- 
keeper, Madame  Gobain,  the  old  woman  of  impeccable  discre- 
tion whom  I  was  so  lucky  as  to  find,  and  whose  affection 
Honorine  has  won.  But  her  zeal,  like  that  of  the  gardener, 
is  kept  hot  by  the  promise  of  reward  at  the  moment  of  success. 
The  porter  and  his  wife  cost  me  dreadfully  dear  for  the  same 
reasons.  However,  for  three  years  Honorine  has  been  happy, 
believing  that  she  owes  to  her  own  toil  all  the  luxury  of 
flowers,  dress,  and  comfort. 

"  '  Oh  !  I  know  what  you  are  about  to  say,'  cried  the 
Count,  seeing  a  question  in  my  eyes  and  on  my  lips.  '  Yes, 
yes  ;  I  have  made  the  attempt.  My  wife  was  formerly  living 
in  the  Faubourg  Saint-Antoine.  One  day  when,  from  what 
Gobain  told  me,  I  believed  in  some  chance  of  a  reconcilia- 
tion, I  wrote  by  post  a  letter,  in  which  I  tried  to  propitiate 
my  wife — a  letter  written  and  re-written  twenty  times !  I 
will  not  describe  my  agonies.  I  went  from  the  Rue  Payenne 
to  the  Rue  de  Reuilly  like  a  condemned  wretch  going  from 
the  Palais  de  Justice  to  his  execution  ;  but  he  goes  on  a  cart, 
and  I  was  on  foot.  It  was  dark — there  was  a  fog ;  I  went  to 
meet  Madame  Gobain,  who  was  to  come  and  tell  me  what 
my  wife  had  done.  Honorine,  on  recognizing  my  writing, 
had  thrown  the  letter  into  the  fire  without  reading  it. 
"Madame  Gobain,"  she  had  exclaimed,  "I  leave  this  to- 
morrow. ' ' 

"  '  What  a  dagger-stroke  was  this  to  a  man  who  found  inex- 
haustible pleasure  in  the  trickery  by  which  he  gets  the  finest 
Lyons  velvet  at  twelve  francs  a  yard,  a  pheasant,  a  fish,  a  dish 


326  HONORINE. 

of  fruit,  for  a  tenth  of  their  value,  for  a  woman  so  ignorant  as 
to  believe  that  she  is  paying  ample  wages  with  two  hundred 
and  fifty  francs  to  Madame  Gobain,  a  cook  fit  for  a  bishop. 

"  'You  have  sometimes  found  me  rubbing  my  hands  in  the 
enjoyment  of  a  sort  of  happiness.  Well,  I  had  just  succeeded 
in  some  ruse  worthy  of  the  stage.  I  had  just  deceived  my 
wife — I  had  sent  her  by  a  purchaser  of  wardrobes  an  India 
shawl,  to  be  offered  to  her  as  the  property  of  an  actress  who 
had  hardly  worn  it,  but  in  which  I — the  solemn  lawyer  whom 
you  know — had  wrapped  myself  for  a  night !  In  short,  my 
life  at  this  day  may  be  summed  up  in  the  two  words  which 
express  the  extremes  of  torment — I  love  and  I  wait !  I  have 
in  Madame  Gobain  a  faithful  spy  on  the  heart  I  worship.  I 
go  every  evening  to  chat  with  the  old  woman,  to  hear  from 
her  all  that  Honorine  has  done  during  the  day,  the  lightest 
word  she  has  spoken,  for  a  single  exclamation  might  betray 
to  me  the  secrets  of  that  soul  which  is  willfully  deaf  and 
dumb.  Honorine  is  pious ;  she  attends  the  church  services 
and  prays,  but  she  has  never  been  to  confession  or  taken  the 
communion ;  she  foresees  what  a  priest  would  tell  her.  She 
will  not  listen  to  the  advice,  to  the  injunction,  that  she  should 
return  to  me.  This  horror  of  me  overwhelms  me,  dismays 
me,  for  I  have  never  done  her  the  smallest  harm.  I  have 
always  been  kind  to  her.  Granting  even  that  I  may  have 
been  a  little  hasty  when  teaching  her,  that  my  man's  irony 
may  have  hurt  her  legitimate  girlish  pride,  is  that  a  reason  for 
persisting  in  a  determination  which  only  the  most  implacable 
hatred  could  have  inspired  ?  Honorine  has  never  told  Mad- 
ame Gobain  whom  she  is ;  she  keeps  absolute  silence  as  to  her 
marriage,  so  that  the  worthy  and  respectable  woman  can 
never  speak  a  word  in  my  favor,  for  she  is  the  only  person  in 
the  house  who  knows  my  secret.  The  others  know  nothing; 
they  live  under  the  awe  caused  by  the  name  of  the  prefect  of 
police,  and  their  respect  for  the  power  of  a  minister.  Hence 
it  is  impossible  for  me  to  penetrate  that  heart;  the  citadel  is 


HONORINE.  327 

mine,  but  I  cannot  get  into  it.     I  have  not  a  single  means  of 
action.     An  act  of  violence  would  ruin  me  for  ever. 

"  '  How  can  I  argue  against  reasons  of  which  I  know  noth- 
ing ?  Should  I  write  a  letter  and  have  it  copied  by  a  public 
writer,  and  laid  before  Honorine?  But  that  would  be  to  run 
the  risk  of  a  third  removal.  The  last  cost  me  fifty  thousand 
francs.  The  purchase  was  made  in  the  first  instance  in  the 
name  of  the  secretary  whom  you  succeeded.  The  unhappy 
man,  who  did  not  know  how  lightly  I  sleep,  was  detected  by  me 
in  the  act  of  opening  the  box  in  which  I  had  put  the  private 
agreement ;  I  coughed,  and  he  was  seized  with  a  panic ;  next 
day  I  compelled  him  to  sell  the  house  to  the  man  in  whose 
name  it  now  stands,  and  I  turned  him  out. 

"*  If  it  were  not  that  I  feel  all  my  noblest  faculties  as  a 
man  satisfied,  happy,  expansive  ;  if  the  part  I  am  playing 
were  not  that  of  divine  fatherhood  ;  if  I  did  not  drink  in 
delight  by  every  pore,  there  are  moments  when  I  should 
believe  that  I  was  a  monomaniac.  Sometimes  at  night  I  hear 
the  jingling  bells  of  madness.  I  dread  the  violent  transitions 
from  a  feeble  hope,  which  sometimes  shines  and  flashes  up,  to 
complete  despair,  falling  as  low  as  man  can  fall.  A  few  days 
since  I  was  seriously  considering  the  horrible  end  of  the  story 
of  Lovelace  and  Clarissa  Harlowe,  and  saying  to  myself,  "  If 
Honorine  were  the  mother  of  a  child  of  mine,  must  she  not 
necessarily  return  under  her  husband's  roof?" 

"  'And  I  have  such  complete  faith  in  a  happy  future  that, 
ten  months  ago,  I  bought  and  paid  for  one  of  the  handsomest 
houses  in  the  Faubourg  Saint-Honor^.  If  I  win  back  Hon- 
orine, I  will  not  allow  her  to  see  this  house  again,  nor  the 
room  from  which  she  fled.  I  mean  to  place  my  idol  in  a  new 
temple,  where  she  may  feel  that  life  is  altogether  new.  That 
house  is  being  made  a  marvel  of  elegance  and  taste.  I  have 
been  told  of  a  poet  who,  being  almost  mad  with  love  for  an 
actress,  bought  the  handsomest  bed  in  Paris  without  knowing 
how  the  actress  would  reward  his  passion.  Well,  one  of  the 


328  HONORINE. 

coldest  of  lawyers,  a  man  who  is  supposed  to  be  the  gravest 
adviser  of  the  crown,  was  stirred  to  the  depths  of  his  heart  by 
that  anecdote.  The  orator  of  the  legislative  chamber  can 
understand  the  poet  who  fed  his  ideal  on  material  possibilities. 
Three  days  before  the  arrival  of  Maria  Louisa,  Napoleon  flung 
himself  on  his  wedding-bed  at  Compiegne.  All  stupendous 
passions  have  the  same  impulses.  I  love  as  a  poet — as  an 
emperor ! ' 

"As  I  heard  the  last  words,  I  believed  that  Comte  Octave's 
fears  were  realized  ;  he  had  risen,  and  was  walking  up  and 
down,  and  gesticulating,  but  he  stopped  as  if  shocked  by  the 
vehemence  of  his  own  words. 

"  '  I  am  very  ridiculous,'  he  added,  after  a  long  pause, 
looking  at  me,  as  if  craving  a  glance  of  pity. 

"  '  No,  monsieur,  you  are  very  unhappy.' 

"  'Ah,  yes!  '  said  he,  taking  up  the  thread  of  his  con- 
fidences. '  From  the  violence  of  my  speech  you  may,  you 
must  believe  in  the  intensity  of  a  physical  passion  which  for 
nine  years  has  absorbed  all  my  faculties ;  but  that  is  nothing 
in  comparison  with  the  worship  I  feel  for  the  soul,  the  mind, 
the  heart,  all  in  that  woman  that  is  not  mere  woman  ;  the 
enchanting  divinities  in  the  train  of  love,  with  whom  we  pass 
our  life,  and  who  form  the  daily  poem  of  a  fugitive  delight. 
By  a  phenomenon  of  retrospection  I  see  now  the  graces  of 
Honorine's  mind  and  heart,  to  which  I  paid  little  heed  in  the 
time  of  my  happiness — like  all  who  are  happy.  From  day  to 
day  I  have  appreciated  the  extent  of  my  loss,  discovering  the 
exquisite  gifts  of  that  capricious  and  refractory  young  creature 
who  has  grown  so  strong  and  so  proud  under  the  heavy  hand 
of  poverty  and  the  shock  of  the  most  cowardly  desertion.  And 
that  heavenly  blossom  is  fading  in  solitude  and  hiding  !  Ah  ! 
The  law  of  which  we  were  speaking,'  he  went  on  with  bitter 
irony,  '  the  law  is  a  squad  of  gendarmes — my  wife  seized  and 
dragged  away  by  force  !  Would  not  that  be  to  triumph  over 
a  corpse  ?  Religion  has  no  hold  on  her  ;  she  craves  its  poetry, 


HONORINE.  ;>:;) 

she  prays,  but  she  does  not  listen  to  the  commandments  of  the 
church.  I,  for  my  part,  have  exhausted  everything  in  the  way 
of  mercy,  of  kindness,  of  love  ;  I  am  at  my  wits'  end.  Only 
one  chance  of  victory  is  left  to  me :  the  cunning  and  patience 
with  which  bird-catchers  at  last  entrap  the  wariest  birds,  the 
swiftest,  the  most  capricious,  and  the  rarest.  Hence,  Maurice, 
when  Monsieur  de  Grandville's  indiscretion  betrayed  to  you 
the  secret  of  my  life,  I  ended  by  regarding  this  incident  as, 
one  of  the  decrees  of  fate,  one  of  the  utterances  for  which 
gamblers  listen  and  pray  in  the  midst  of  their  most  impas- 
sioned play.  Have  you  enough  affection  for  me  to  show  me 
romantic  devotion  ? ' 

"  '  I  see  what  you  are  coming  to,  Monsieur  le  Comte,'  said 
I,  interrupting  him ;  '  I  guess  your  purpose.  Your  first  secre- 
tary tried  to  open  your  deed  box.  I  know  the  heart  of  your 
second — he  might  fall  in  love  with  your  wife.  And  can  you 
devote  him  to  destruction  by  sending  him  into  the  fire?  Can 
any  one  put  his  hand  into  a  brasier  without  burning  it?' 

"'You  are  a  foolish  boy,'  replied  the  Count.  'I  will 
send  you  well  gloved.  It  is  no  secretary  of  mine  that  will 
be  lodged  in  the  Rue  Saint-Maur  in  the  little  garden-house 
which  I  have  at  his  disposal.  It  is  my  distant  cousin, 
Baron  de  L'Hostal,  a  lawyer  high  in  office.' 

"After  a  moment  of  silent  surprise,  I  heard  the  gate 
bell  ring,  and  a  carriage  came  into  the  courtyard.  Pres- 
ently the  footman  announced  Madame  de  Courteville  and  her 
daughter.  The  Count  had  a  large  family  connection  on  his 
mother's  side.  Madame  de  Courteville,  his  cousin,  was  the 
widow  of  a  judge  on  the  bench  of  the  Seine  division,  who 
had  left  her  a  daughter  and  no  fortune  whatever.  What 
could  a  woman  of  nine-and-twenty  be  in  comparison  with  a 
young  girl  of  twenty,  as  lovely  as  imagination  could  wish 
for  an  ideal  mistress? 

'"Baron  and  master  of  appeals,  till  you  get  someth.ng 
better,  and  this  old  house  settled  on  her-would  you  not 


330  HONORINE. 

have  enough  good  reasons  for  not  falling  in  love  with  the 
Countess?'  he  said  to  me  in  a  whisper,  as  he  took  me  by 
the  hand  and  introduced  me  to  Madame  de  Courteville  and 
her  daughter. 

"  I  was  dazzled,  not  so  much  by  these  advantages  of 
which  I  had  never  dreamed,  but  by  Amelie  de  Courteville, 
whose  beauty  was  thrown  into  relief  by  one  of  those  well- 
ichosen  toilets  which  a  mother  can  achieve  for  a  daughter 
when  she  wants  to  see  her  married. 

"  But  I  will  not  talk  of  myself,"  said  the  consul  after 
a  pause. 

"  Three  weeks  later  I  went  to  live  in  the  gardener's 
cottage,  which  had  been  cleaned,  repaired,  and  furnished 
with  the  celerity  which  is  explained  by  three  words :  Paris ; 
French  workmen ;  money  !  I  was  as  much  in  love  as  the 
Count  could  possibly  desire  as  a  security.  Would  the  pru- 
dence of  a  young  man  of  twenty-five  be  equal  to  the  part 
I  was  undertaking,  involving  a  friend's  happiness?  To  settle 
that  matter,  I  may  confess  that  I  counted  very  much  on 
my  uncle's  advice;  for  I  had  been  authorized  by  the  Count 
to  take  him  into  confidence  in  any  case  where  I  deemed 
his  interference  necessary.  I  engaged  a  garden  ;  I  devoted 
myself  to  horticulture ;  I  worked  frantically,  like  a  man 
whom  nothing  can  divert,  turning  up  the  soil  of  the  market- 
garden,  and  appropriating  the  ground  to  the  culture  of  flow- 
ers. Like  the  maniacs  of  England,  or  of  Holland,  I  gave  it 
out  that  I  was  devoted  to  one  kind  of  flower,  and  especially 
grew  dahlias,  collecting  every  variety.  You  will  understand 
that  my  conduct,  even  in  the  smallest  detail,  was  laid  down 
for  me  by  the  Count,  whose  whole  intellectual  powers  were 
directed  to  the  most  trifling  incidents  of  the  tragi-comedy 
enacted  in  the  Rue  Saint-Maur.  As  soon  as  the  Countess 
had  gone  to  bed,  at  about  eleven  at  night,  Octave,  Madame 
Gobain,  and  I  sat  in  council.  I  heard  the  old  woman's  report 
to  the  Count  of  his  wife's  least  proceedings  during  the  day. 


HONORINE.  331 

He  inquired  into  everything :  her  meals,  her  occupations,  her 
frame  of  mind,  her  plans  for  the  morrow,  the  flowers  she  pro- 
posed to  imitate.  I  understood  what  love  in  despair  may  be 
when  it  is  the  threefold  passion  of  the  heart,  the  mind,  and 
the  senses.  Octave  lived  only  for  that  hour. 

"  During  two  months,  while  my  work  in  the  garden  lasted, 
I  never  set  eyes  on  the  little  house  where  my  fair  neighbor 
dwelt.     I  had  not  even  inquired  whether  I  had  a  neighbor, 
though  the  Countess'  garden  was  divided  from  mine  by  a 
paling,  along  which  she  had  planted  cypress  trees  already  four 
feet  high.     One  fine  morning  Madame  Gobain  announced  to 
her  mistress,  as  a  disastrous  piece  of  news,  the  intention,  ex- 
pressed by  an  eccentric  creature  who  had  become  her  neighbor, 
of  building  a  wall  between  the  two  gardens,  at  the  end  of  the 
year.     I  will  say  nothing  of  the  curiosity  which  consumed  me 
to  see  the  Countess  !     The  wish  almost  extinguished  my  bud- 
ding love  for  Amelie  de  Courteville.    My  scheme  for  building 
a  wall  was  indeed  a  serious  threat.    There  would  be  no  more 
fresh  air  for  Honorine,  whose  garden  would  then  be  a  sort  of 
narrow  alley  shut  in  between  my  wall  and  her  own   little 
house.     This  dwelling,  formerly  a  summer  villa,  was  like  a 
house  of  cards ;  it  was  not  more  than  thirty  feet  deep  and 
about  a  hundred  feet  long.     The  garden  front,  painted  in  the 
German  fashion,   imitated  a  trellis  with    flowers  up  to  the 
second  floor,  and  was  a  really  charming  example  of  the  pom- 
padour style,  so  well  called  rococo.     A  long  avenue  of  limes 
led  up  to  it.     The  gardens  of  the  pavilion  and  ray  plot  of 
ground  were  in  the  shape  of  a  hatchet,  of  which  this  avenue 
was  the  handle.     My  wall  would  cut  away  three-quarters  of 
the  hatchet. 

"  The  Countess  was  in  despair. 

"  «  My  good  Gobain,'  said  she,  '  what  sort  of  a  man  is  this 

florist  ? ' 

'"On  my  word,'  said  the  housekeeper,  'I  do  not  knon 
whether  it  will  be  possible  to  tame  him.     He  seems  to  have 


332  HONORINE. 

a  horror  of  women.  He  is  the  nephew  of  a  Paris  cure.  I 
have  seen  the  uncle  but  once ;  a  fine  old  man  of  sixty,  very 
ugly,  but  very  amiable.  It  is  quite  possible  that  this  priest 
encourages  his  nephew,  as  they  say  in  the  neighborhood,  in 
his  love  of  flowers,  that  nothing  worse  may  happen ' 

"'  Why— what?' 

"  '  Well,  your  neighbor  is  a  little  cracked  !  '  said  Gobain, 
tapping  her  head  ! 

"  Now  a  harmless  lunatic  is  the  only  man  whom  no  woman 
ever  distrusts  in  the  matter  of  sentiment.  You  will  see  how 
wise'the  Count  had  been  in  choosing  this  disguise  for  me. 

"  '  What  ails  him  then  ? '  asked  the  Countess. 

"  '  He  has  studied  too  hard,'  replied  Gobain ;  '  he  has 
turned  misanthropic.  And  he  has  his  reasons  for  disliking 
women — well,  if  you  want  to  know  all  that  is  being  said  about 
him ' 

"'Well,'  said  Honorine,  'madmen  frighten  me  less  than 
sane  folk  ;  I  will  speak  to  him  myself!  Tell  him  that  I  beg 
him  to  come  here.  If  I  do  not  succeed,  I  will  send  for  the 
cure. ' 

"  The  day  after  this  conversation,  as  I  was  walking  along 
my  graveled  path,  I  caught  sight  of  the  half-opened  curtains 
on  the  second  floor  of  the  little  house,  and  of  a  woman's  face 
curiously  peeping  out.  Madame  Gobain  called  me.  I  hastily 
glanced  at  the  Countess'  house,  and  by  a  rude  shrug  expressed, 
'  What  do  I  care  for  your  mistress  ?  ' 

"  '  Madame,'  said  Gobain,  called  upon  to  give  an  account 
of  her  errand,  '  the  madman  bid  me  leave  him  in  peace,  say- 
ing that  even  a  charcoal-seller  is  master  in  his  own  premises, 
especially  when  he  has  no  wife.' 

"  '  He  is  perfectly  right,'  said  the  Countess. 

"  'Yes,  but  he  ended  by  saying,  "  I  will  go,"  when  I  told 
him  that  he  would  greatly  distress  a  lady  living  in  retirement, 
who  found  her  greatest  solace  in  growing  flowers.' 

"  Next  day  a  signal  from  Gobain  informed  me  that  I  was 


HONORINE.  xx 

expected.  After  the  Countess'  breakfast,  when  she  was  walk- 
ing to  and  fro  in  front  of  her  house,  I  broke  out  some  palings 
and  went  toward  her.  I  had  dressed  myself  like  a  country- 
man, in  an  old  pair  of  gray  flannel  trousers,  heavy  wooden 
shoes,  and  shabby  shooting  coat,  a  peaked  cap  on  my  head,  a 
ragged  bandana  round  my  neck,  hands  soiled  with  mold,  and 
a  dibble  in  my  hand. 

"  «  Madame,'  said  the  housekeeper,  'this  good  man  is  your 
neighbor.' 

"  The  Countess  was  not  alarmed.  I  saw  at  last  the  woman 
whom  her  own  conduct  and  her  husband's  confidences  had 
made  me  so  curious  to  meet.  It  was  in  the  early  days  of 
May.  The  air  was  pure,  the  weather  serene ;  the  verdure  of 
the  first  foliage,  the  fragrance  of  spring  formed  a  setting  for 
this  creature  of  sorrow.  As  I  then  saw  Honorine  I  under- 
stood Octave's  passion  and  the  truthfulness  of  his  description, 
'  A  heavenly  flower  !  ' 

"  Her  pallor  was  what  first  struck  me  by  its  peculiar  tone 
of  white — for  there  are  as  many  tones  of  white  as  of  red  or 
blue.  On  looking  at  the  Countess,  the  eye  seemed  to  feel 
that  tender  skin,  where  the  blood  flowed  in  the  blue  veins. 
At  the  slightest  emotion  the  blood  mounted  under  the  surface 
in  rosy  flushes  like  a  cloud.  When  we  met,  the  sunshine, 
filtering  through  the  light  foliage  of  the  acacias,  shed  on 
Honorine  the  pale  gold,  ambient  glory  in  which  Raphael  and 
Titian,  alone  of  all  painters,  have  been  able  to  enwrap  the 
Virgin.  Her  brown  eyes  expressed  both  tenderness  and  viva- 
city ;  their  brightness  seemed  reflected  in  her  face  through 
the  long  downcast  lashes.  Merely  by  lifting  her  delicate  eye- 
lids, Honorine  could  cast  a  spell ;  there  was  so  much  feeling, 
dignity,  terror,  or  contempt  in  her  way  of  raising  or  dropping 
those  veils  of  the  soul.  She  could  freeze  or  give  life  by  a 
look.  Her  light-brown  hair,  carelessly  knotted  on  her  head, 
outlined  a  poet's  brow,  high,  powerful,  and  dreamy.  The 
mouth  was  wholly  voluptuous.  And  to  crown  all  by  a  grace, 


334  HONORINE. 

rare  in  France,  though  common  in  Italy,  all  the  lines  ana 
forms  of  the  head  had  a  stamp  of  nobleness  which  would 
defy  the  outrages  of  time. 

"  Though  slight,  Honorine  was  not  thin,  and  her  figure 
struck  me  as  being  one  that  might  revive  love  when  it  be- 
lieved itself  exhausted.  She  perfectly  represented  the  idea 
conveyed  by  the  word  mignonne  (darling),  for  she  was  one  of 
those  pliant  little  women  who  allow  themselves  to  be  taken 
up,  petted,  set  down,  and  taken  up  again  like  a  kitten.  Her 
small  feet,  as  I  heard  them  on  the  gravel,  made  a  light  sound 
essentially  their  own,  that  harmonized  with  the  rustle  of  her 
dress,  producing  a  feminine  music  which  stamped  itself  on 
the  heart,  and  remained  distinct  from  the  footfall  of  a  thou- 
sand other  women.  Her  gait  bore  all  the  quarterings  of  her 
race  with  so  much  pride,  that,  in  the  street,  the  least  respectful 
workingman  would  have  made  way  for  her.  Gay  and  tender, 
haughty  and  imposing,  it  was  impossible  to  understand  her, 
excepting  as  gifted  with  these  apparently  incompatible  quali- 
ties, which,  nevertheless,  had  left  her  still  a  child.  But  it 
was  a  child  who  might  be  as  strong  as  an  angel ;  and,  like  the 
angel,  once  hurt  in  her  nature,  she  would  be  implacable. 

"  Coldness  on  that  face  must  no  doubt  be  death  to  those 
on  whom  her  eyes  had  smiled,  for  whom  her  set  lips  had 
parted,  for  those  whose  soul  had  drunk  in  the  melody  of  that 
voice,  lending  to  her  words  the  poetry  of  song  by  its  peculiar 
intonation.  Inhaling  the  perfume  of  violets  that  accompanied 
her,  I  understood  how  the  memory  of  this  wife  had  arrested 
the  Count  on  the  threshold  of  debauchery,  and  how  impos- 
sible it  would  be  ever  to  forget  a  creature  who  really  was  a 
flower  to  the  touch,  a  flower  to  the  eye,  a  flower  of  fragrance, 
a  heavenly  flower  to  the  soul Honorine  inspired  devo- 
tion, chivalrous  devotion,  regardless  of  reward.  A  man  on 
seeing  her  must  say  to  himself — 

"  '  Think,  and  I  will  divine  your  thought ;  speak,  and  I 
will  obey.  If  my  life,  sacrificed  in  torments,  can  procure 


HONORINE.  335 

you  one  day's  happiness,  take  my  life ;  I  will  smile  like  a. 
martyr  at  the  stake,  for  I  shall  offer  that  day  to  God,  as  a 
token  to  which  a  father  responds  on  recognizing  a  gift  to  his 
child.'  Many  women  study  their  expression,  and  succeed  in 
producing  effects  similar  to  those  which  would  have  struck 
you  at  first  sight  of  the  Countess ;  only,  in  her,  it  all  was  the 
outcome  of  a  delightful  nature,  an  inimitable  nature  that  went 
at  once  to  the  heart.  If  I  tell  you  all  this,  it  is  because  her 
soul,  her  thoughts,  the  exquisiteness  of  her  heart,  are  all  we 
are  concerned  with,  and  you  would  have  blamed  me  if  I  had 
not  sketched  them  for  you. 

"  I  was  very  near  forgetting  my  part  as  a  half-crazy  lout, 
clumsy,  and  by  no  means  chivalrous. 

"  '  I  have  been  told,  madame,  that  you  are  very  fond  of 
flowers  ? ' 

"  ' I  am  an  artificial  flower-maker,'  said  she.  'After grow- 
ing flowers,  I  imitate  them,  like  a  mother  who  is  artist  enough 
to  have  the  pleasure  of  painting  portraits  of  her  children. 
That  is  enough  to  tell  you  that  I  am  poor  and  unable  to  pay 
for  the  concession  that  I  am  anxious  to  obtain  from  you?' 

"  '  But  how,'  said  I,  as  grave  as  a  judge, '  can  a  lady  of  such 
rank  as  yours  would  seem  to  be,  ply  so  humble  a  calling? 
Have  you,  like  me,  good  reasons  for  employing  your  fingers 
so  as  to  keep  your  brain  from  working  ?  ' 

"  '  Let  us  stick  to  the  question  of  the  wall,'  said  she  with  a 
smile. 

" '  Why  we  have  begun  at  the  foundations,'  I  rejoined. 
'Must  I  not  know  which  of  us  ought  to  yield  to  the  other  in 
behalf  of  our  suffering,  or,  if  you  choose,  of  our  mania?  Oh  ! 
what  a  charming  clump  of  narcissus  !  They  are  as  fresh  as  this 
spring  morning  ! ' 

"I  assure  you,  she  had  made  for  herself  a  perfect  museum 
of  flowers  and  shrubs,  which  none  might  see  but  the  sun,  and 
of  which  the  arrangement  had  been  prompted  by  the  genius 
of  an  artist  j  the  most  heartless  of  landlords  must  have  treated 


336  HONORINE. 

it  with  respect.  The  masses  of  plants,  arranged  according  to 
their  height,  or  in  single  clumps,  were  really  a  joy  to  the  soul. 
This  retired  and  solitary  garden  breathed  comforting  scents, 
and  suggested  none  but  sweet  thoughts  and  graceful,  nay, 
voluptuous  pictures.  On  it  was  set  that  inscrutable  sign- 
manual,  which  our  true  character  stamps  on  everything,  as 
soon  as  nothing  compels  us  to  obey  the  various  hypocrisies, 
necessary  as  they  are,  which  society  insists  upon.  I  looked 
alternately  at  the  mass  of  narcissus  and  at  the  Countess,  affect- 
ing to  be  far  more  in  love  with  the  flowers  than  with  her,  to 
carry  out  my  part. 

'"So  you  are  very  fond  of  flowers?'  said  she. 

"  '  They  are,'  I  replied,  '  the  only  beings  that  never  disap- 
point our  cares  and  affection.'  And  I  went  on  to  deliver  such 
a  diatribe  while  comparing  botany  and  the  world,  that  we 
ended  miles  away  from  the  dividing  wall,  and  the  Countess 
must  have  supposed  me  to  be  a  wretched  and  wounded  sufferer 
worthy  of  her  pity.  However,  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour  my 
neighbor  naturally  brought  me  back  to  the  point ;  for  women, 
when  they  are  not  in  love,  have  all  the  cold  blood  of  an  ex- 
perienced attorney. 

"'If  you  insist  on  my  leaving  the  paling,' said  I,  'you 
will  learn  all  the  secrets  of  gardening  that  I  want  to  hide ;  I 
am  seeking  to  grow  a  blue  dahlia,  a  blue  rose  ;  I  am  crazy  for 
blue  flowers.  Is  not  blue  the  favorite  color  of  superior  souls? 
We  are  neither  of  us  really  at  home ;  we  might  as  well  make 
a  little  door  of  open  railings  to  unite  our  gardens.  You,  too, 
are  fond  of  flowers ;  you  will  see  mine,  I  shall  see  yours.  If 
you  receive  no  visitors  at  all,  I,  for  my  part,  have  none  but 
my  uncle,  the  cure  of  the  white  friars.' 

"  'No,'  said  she,  'I  will  give  you  the  right  to  come  into 
my  garden,  my  premises,  at  any  hour.  Come  and  welcome  ; 
you  will  always  be  admitted  as  a  neighbor  with  whom  I  hope 
to  keep  on  good  terms.  But  I  like  my  solitude  too  well  to 
burden  it  with  any  loss  of  independence.' 


HONORINE.  337 

'"As  you  please,'  said  I,  and  with  one  leap  I  was  over  the 
paling. 

"  '  Now,  of  what  use  would  a  door  be? '  said  I,  from  my 
own  domain,  turning  round  to  the  Countess,  and  mocking  her 
with  a  madman's  gesture  and  grimace. 

"  For  a  fortnight  I  seemed  to  take  no  heed  of  my  neighbor. 
Toward  the  end  of  May,  one  lovely  evening,  we  happened 
both  to  be  out  on  opposite  sides  of  the  paling,  both  walking 
slowly.  Having  reached  the  end,  we  could  not  help  exchang- 
ing a  few  civil  words ;  she  found  me  in  such  deep  dejection, 
lost  in  such  painful  meditations,  that  she  spoke  to  me  of  hope- 
fulness, in  brief  sentences  that  sounded  like  the  songs  with 
which  nurses  lull  their  babes.  I  then  leaped  the  fence  and 
found  myself  for  the  second  time  at  her  side.  The  Countess 
led  me  into  the  house,  wishing  to  subdue  my  sadness.  So  at 
last  I  had  penetrated  the  sanctuary  where  everything  was  in 
harmony  with  the  woman  I  have  tried  to  describe  to  you. 

"Exquisite  simplicity  reigned  there.  The  interior  of 
the  little  house  was  just  such  a  dainty  box  as  the  art  of  the 
eighteenth  century  devised  for  the  pretty  profligacy  of  a  fine 
gentleman.  The  dining-room,  on  the  first  floor,  was  painted 
in  fresco,  with  garlands  of  flowers,  admirably  and  marvelously 
executed.  The  staircase  was  charmingly  decorated  in  mono- 
chrome. The  little  drawing-room,  opposite  the  dining-room, 
was  very  much  faded ;  but  the  Countess  had  hung  it  with 
panels  of  tapestry  of  fanciful  designs,  taken  off  old  screens. 
A  bath-room  came  next.  Upstairs  there  was  but  one  bed- 
room, with  a  dressing-room,  and  a  library  which  she  used  as 
her  workroom.  The  kitchen  was  beneath  in  the  basement  on 
which  the  house  was  raised,  for  there  was  a  flight  of  several 
steps  outside.  The  balustrade  of  a  balcony  in  garlands  a  la 
pompadour  concealed  the  roof;  only  the  lead  cornices  were 
visible.  In  this  retreat  one  was  a  hundred  leagues  from  Paris. 

"  But  for  the  bitter  smile  which  occasionally  played  on  the 
beautiful  red  lips  of  this  pale  woman,  it  would  have  been 
22 


338  HONORINE, 

possible  to  believe  that  this  violet  buried  in  her  thicket  of 
flowers  was  happy.  In  a  few  days  we  had  reached  a  certain 
degree  of  intimacy,  the  result  of  our  close  neighborhood  and 
of  the  Countess'  conviction  that  I  was  indifferent  to  women. 
A  look  would  have  spoilt  all,  and  I  never  allowed  a  thought 
of  her  to  be  seen  in  my  eyes.  Honorine  chose  to  regard  me 
as  an  old  friend.  Her  manner  to  me  was  the  outcome  of  a 
kind  of  pity.  Her  looks,  her  voice,  her  words,  all  showed 
that  she  was  a  hundred  miles  away  from  the  coquettish  airs 
which  the  strictest  virtue  might  have  allowed  under  such  cir- 
cumstances. She  soon  gave  me  the  right  to  go  into  the  pretty 
workshop  where  she  made  her  flowers,  a  retreat  full  of  books 
and  curiosities,  as  smart  as  a  boudoir,  where  elegance  empha- 
sized the  vulgarity  of  the  tools  of  her  trade.  The  Countess 
had  in  the  course  of  time  poetized,  as  I  may  say,  a  thing 
which  is  at  the  antipodes  to  poetry — a  manufacture. 

"  Perhaps  of  all  the  work  a  woman  can  do,  the  making  of 
artificial  flowers  is  that  of  which  the  details  allow  her  to  display 
most  grace.  For  coloring  prints  she  must  sit  bent  over  a  table 
and  devote  herself,  with  some  attention,  to  this  half-painting. 
Embroidering  tapestry,  as  diligently  as  a  woman  must  who 
is  to  earn  her  living  by  it,  entails  consumption  or  curva- 
ture of  the  spine.  Engraving  music  is  one  of  the  most  labor- 
ious, by  the  care,  the  minute  exactitude,  and  the  intelligence 
it  demands.  Sewing  and  white  embroidery  do  not  earn  thirty 
sous  a  day.  But  the  making  of  flowers  and  light  articles  of 
wear  necessitates  a  variety  of  movements,  gestures,  ideas  even, 
which  do  not  take  a  pretty  woman  out  of  her  sphere ;  she  is 
still  herself;  she  may  chat,  laugh,  sing,  or  think. 

"  There  was  certainly  a  feeling  for  art  in  the  way  in  which 
the  Countess  arranged  on  a  long  pine  table  the  myriad-colored 
petals  which  were  used  in  composing  the  flowers  she  was  to 
produce.  The  saucers  of  color  were  of  white  china,  and 
always  clean,  arranged  in  such  order  that  the  eye  could  at 
once  see  the  required  shade  in  the  scale  of  tints.  Thus  the 


HONOR1NE.  ....,, 

aristocratic  artist  saved  time.  A  pretty  little  cabinet  with  a 
hundred  tiny  drawers,  of  ebony  inlaid  with  ivory,  contained 
the  little  steel  moulds  in  which  she  shaped  the  leaves  and  some 
forms  of  petals.  A  fine  Japanese  bowl  held  the  paste,  which 
was  never  allowed  to  turn  sour,  and  it  had  a  fitted  cover  with 
a  hinge  so  easy  that  she  could  lift  it  with  a  finger-tip.  The 
wire,  of  iron  and  brass,  lurked  in  a  little  drawer  of  the  table 
before  her. 

"  Under  her  eyes,  in  a  Venetian  glass,  shaped  like  a  flower- 
cup  on  its  stem,  was  the  living  model  she  strove  to  imitate. 
She  had  a  passion  for  achievement ;  she  attempted  the  most 
difficult  things,  close  racemes,  the  tiniest  corollas,  heaths, 
nectaries,  of  the  most  variegated  hues.  Her  hands,  as  swift  as 
her  thoughts,  went  from  the  table  to  the  flower  she  was 
making,  as  those  of  an  accomplished  pianist  fly  over  the  keys. 
Her  fingers  seemed  to  be  fairies,  to  use  Perrault's  expression, 
so  infinite  were  the  different  actions  of  twisting,  fitting,  and 
pressure  needed  for  the  work,  all  hidden  under  grace  of  move- 
ment, while  she  adapted  each  motion  to  the  result  with  the 
lucidity  of  instinct. 

"  I  could  not  tire  of  admiring  her  as  she  shaped  a  flower 
from  the  materials  sorted  before  her,  padding  the  wire-stem 
and  adjusting  the  leaves.  She  displayed  the  genius  of  a  painter 
in  her  bold  attempts ;  she  copied  faded  flowers  and  yellowing 
leaves ;  she  struggled  even  with  wild-flowers,  the  most  artless 
of  all,  and  the  most  elaborate  in  their  simplicity. 

"  'This  art,'  she  would  say,  'is  in  its  infancy.  If  the 
women  of  Paris  had  a  little  of  the  genius  which  the  slavery  of 
the  harem  brings  out  in  Oriental  women,  they  would  lend  a 
complete  language  of  flowers  to  the  wreaths  they  wear  on  their 
heads.  To  please  my  own  taste  as  an  artist,  I  have  made 
drooping  flowers  with  leaves  of  the  hue  of  Florentine  bronze, 
such  as  are  found  before  or  after  the  winter.  Would  not  such 
a  crown  on  the  head  of  a  young  woman  whose  life  is  a  failure 
have  a  certain  poetical  fitness  ?  How  many  things  a  woman 


340  HONOR1NE. 

might  express  by  her  head-dress !  Are  there  not  flowers  for 
drunken  Bacchantes,  flowers  for  gloomy  and  stern  bigots,  pen- 
sive flowers  for  women  who  are  bored  ?  Botany,  I  believe, 
may  be  made  to  express  every  sensation  and  thought  of  the 
soul,  even  the  most  subtle  ? ' 

"  She  would  employ  me  to  stamp  out  the  leaves,  cut  up 
material,  and  prepare  wires  for  the  stems.  My  affected  desire 
for  occupation  soon  made  me  skillful.  We  talked  as  we 
worked.  When  I  had  nothing  to  do,  I  read  new  books  to 
her,  for  I  had  my  part  to  keep  up  as  a  man  weary  of  life,  worn 
out  with  griefs,  gloomy,  skeptical,  and  soured.  My  person 
led  to  adorable  banter  as  to  my  purely  physical  resemblance — 
with  the  exception  of  his  club-foot — to  Lord  Byron.  It  was 
tacitly  acknowledged  that  her  own  troubles,  as  to  which  she 
kept  the  most  profound  silence,  far  outweighed  mine,  though 
the  causes  I  assigned  for  my  misanthropy  might  have  satisfied 
Young  or  Job. 

"I  will  say  nothing  of  the  feelings  of  shame  which  tormented 
me  as  I  inflicted  on  my  heart,  like  the  beggars  in  the  street, 
false  wounds  to  excite  the  compassion  of  that  enchanting 
woman.  I  soon  appreciated  the  extent  of  my  devotedness  by 
learning  to  estimate  the  baseness  of  a  spy.  The  expressions 
of  sympathy  bestowed  on  me  would  have  comforted  the 
greatest  grief.  This  charming  creature,  weaned  from  the 
world,  and  for  so  many  years  alone,  having,  beside  love,  treas- 
ures of  kindliness  to  bestow,  offered  these  to  me  with  childlike 
effusiveness  and  such  compassion  as  would  inevitably  have 
filled  with  bitterness  any  profligate  who  should  have  fallen  in 
love  with  her ;  for,  alas  !  it  was  all  charity,  all  sheer  pity. 
Her  renunciation  of  love,  her  dread  of  what  is  called  happiness 
for  women,  she  proclaimed  with  equal  vehemence  and  candor. 
These  happy  days  proved  to  me  that  a  woman's  friendship  is 
far  superior  to  her  love. 

"I  suffered  the  revelations  of  my  sorrows  to  be  dragged 
from  me  with  as  many  grimaces  as  a  young  lady  allows  herself 


HONOKIA'E.  34! 

before  sitting  down  to  the  piano,  so  conscious  are  they  of  the 
annoyance  that  will  follow.  As  you  may  imagine,  the  neces- 
sity for  overcoming  my  dislike  to  speak  had  induced  the 
Countess  to  strengthen  the  bonds  of  our  intimacy ;  but  she 
found  in  me  so  exact  a  counterpart  of  her  own  antipathy  to 
love  that  I  fancied  she  was  well  content  with  the  chance  which 
had  brought  to  her  desert  island  a  sort  of  Man  Friday.  Soli- 
tude was,  perhaps,  beginning  to  weigh  on  her.  At  the  same 
time  there  was  nothing  of  the  coquette  in  her ;  nothing  sur- 
vived of  the  woman ;  she  did  not  feel  that  she  had  a  heart, 
she  told  me,  excepting  in  the  ideal  world  where  she  found 
refuge.  I  involuntarily  compared  these  two  lives — hers 
and  the  Count's :  his,  all  activity,  agitation,  and  emotion ; 
hers,  all  inaction,  quiescence,  and  stagnation.  The  woman 
and  the  man  were  admirably  obedient  to  their  nature.  My 
misanthropy  allowed  me  to  utter  cynical  sallies  against  men 
and  women  both,  and  I  indulged  in  them,  hoping  to  bring 
Honorine  to  the  confidential  point ;  but  she  was  not  to  be 
caught  in  any  trap,  and  I  began  to  understand  that  mulish 
obstinacy  which  is  commoner  among  women  than  is  generally 
supposed. 

"  'The  Orientals  are  right,'  I  said  to  her  one  evening, 
'  when  they  shut  you  up  and  regard  you  merely  as  the  play- 
things of  their  pleasure.  Europe  has  been  well  punished  for 
having  admitted  you  to  form  an  element  of  society  and  for 
accepting  you  on  an  equal  footing.  In  my  opinion,  woman 
is  the  most  dishonorable  and  cowardly  being  to  be  found. 
Nay,  and  that  is  where  her  charm  lies.  Where  would  be  the 
pleasure  of  hunting  a  tame  thing  ?  When  once  a  woman  has 
inspired  a  man's  passion,  she  is  to  him  for  ever  sacred;  in 
his  eyes  she  is  hedged  round  by  an  imprescriptible  preroga- 
tive. In  men  gratitude  for  past  delights  is  eternal.  Though 
he  should  find  his  mistress  grown  old  or  unworthy,  the 
woman  still  has  rights  over  his  heart ;  but  to  you  women  the 
man  you  have  loved  is  as  nothing  to  you ;  nay,  more,  he  is 


342  HONORINE. 

unpardonable  in  one  thing — he  lives  on  !  You  dare  not  own 
it,  but  you  all  have  in  your  hearts  the  feeling  which  that 
popular  calumny  called  tradition  ascribes  to  the  Lady  of  the 
Tour  de  Nesle:  "What  a  pity  it  is  that  we  cannot  live  on 
love  as  we  live  on  fruit,  and  that,  when  we  have  had  our  fill, 
nothing  should  survive  but  the  remembrance  of  pleasure  ! " 

"  '  God  has,  no  doubt,  reserved  such  perfect  bliss  for  para- 
dise,' said  she.  *  But,'  she  added,  '  if  your  argument  seems 
to  you  very  witty,  to  me  it  has  the  disadvantage  of  being 
false.  What  can  those  women  be  who  give  themselves  up  to 
a  succession  of  loves?  '  she  asked,  looking  at  me  as  the  Vir- 
gin in  Ingres'  picture  looks  at  Louis  XIII.  offering  her  his 
kingdom. 

"  '  You  are  an  actress  in  good  faith,'  said  I,  '  for  you  gave 
me  a  look  just  now  which  would  make  the  fame  of  an  actress. 
Still,  lovely  as  you  are,  you  have  loved ;  ergo,  you  forget.' 

"  '  I !  '  she  exclaimed,  evading  my  question,  '  I  am  not  a 
woman.  I  am  a  nun,  and  seventy-two  years  old  !  ' 

"'Then,  how  can  you  so  positively  assert  that  you  feel 
more  keenly  than  I  ?  Sorrow  has  but  one  form  for  women. 
The  only  misfortunes  they  regard  are  disappointments  of  the 
heart.' 

"  She  looked  at  me  sweetly,  and,  like  all  women  when 
stuck  between  the  issues  of  a  dilemma  or  held  in  the  clutches 
of  truth,  she  persisted,  nevertheless,  in  her  willfulness. 

"  '  I  am  a  nun,'  she  said,  '  and  you  talk  to  me  of  a  world 
where  I  shall  never  again  set  foot.' 

"  '  Not  even  in  thought  ?  '  said  I. 

'"Is  the  world  so  much  to  be  desired?'  she  replied. 
'  Oh  !  when  my  mind  wanders,  it  goes  higher.  The  angel  of 
perfection,  the  beautiful  angel  Gabriel,  often  sings  in  my 
heart.  If  I  were  rich,  I  should  work  all  the  same,  to  keep 
me  from  soaring  too  often  on  the  many-tinted  wings  of  the 
angel,  and  wandering  in  the  world  of  fancy.  There  are 
meditations  which  are  the  ruin  of  us  women  !  I  owe  much 


HONORINE.  £|s 

peace  of  mind  to  my  flowers,  though  sometimes  they  fail  to 
occupy  me.  On  some  days  I  find  my  soul  invaded  by  a  pur- 
poseless expectancy  ;  I  cannot  banish  some  idea  which  takes 
possession  of  me,  which  seems  to  make  my  fingers  clumsy.  I 
feel  that  some  great  event  is  impending,  that  my  life  is  about 
to  change  ;  I  listen  vaguely,  I  stare  into  the  darkness,  I  have 
no  liking  for  my  work,  and  after  a  thousand  fatigues  I  find 
life  once  more — every-day  life.  Is  this  a  warning  from  heaven? 
I  ask  myself ' 

"After  three  months  of  this  struggle  between  two  diplo- 
matists, concealed  under  the  semblance  of  youthful  melan- 
choly, and  a  woman  whose  disgust  of  life  made  her  invulner- 
able, I  told  the  Count  that  it  was  impossible  to  drag  this 
tortoise  out  of  her  shell ;  it  must  be  broken.  The  evening 
before,  in  our  last  quite  friendly  discussion,  the  Countess 
had  exclaimed — 

"  '  Lucretia's  dagger  wrote  in  letters  of  blood  the  watch- 
word of  woman's  charter  :  "Liberty  /" 

"  From  that  moment  the  Count  left  me  free  to  act. 

"  '  I  have  been  paid  a  hundred  francs  for  the  flowers  and 
caps  I  made  this  week  ! '  Honorine  exclaimed  gleefully  one 
Saturday  evening  when  I  went  to  visit  her  in  the  little  sitting- 
room  on  the  ground  floor,  which  the  unavowed  proprietor 
had  had  regilt. 

"  It  was  ten  o'clock.  The  twilight  of  July  and  a  glorious 
moon  lent  us  their  misty  light.  Gusts  of  mingled  perfumes 
soothed  the  soul ;  the  Countess  was  clinking  in  her  hand  the 
five  gold-pieces  given  to  her  by  a  supposititious  dealer  in 
fashionable  frippery,  another  of  Octave's  accomplices  found 
for  him  by  a  judge,  M.  Popinot. 

"  '  I  earn  my  living  by  amusing  myself,'  she  said  ;  '  I  am 
free,  when  men,  armed  with  their  laws,  have  tried  to  make  us 
slaves.     Oh,  I  have  transports  of  pride  every  Saturday  ! 
short,  I  like  Monsieur  Gaudissart's  gold-pieces  as  much  as 
Lord  Byron,  your  double,  liked  Mr.  Murray's.' 


((    C 


HONORINE. 

'This  is  not  in  the  least  becoming  in  a  woman,'  said  I. 

Pooh !  Am  I  a  woman  ?  I  am  a  boy  gifted  with  a 
soft  soul,  that  is  all;  a  boy  whom  no  woman  can  ever 
torture ' 

"'Your  life  is  the  negation  of  your  whole  being,'  I 
replied.  '  What  ?  You,  on  whom  the  good  God  has  lav- 
ished His  choicest  treasures  of  love  and  beauty,  do  you 
never  wish ' 

"  '  For  what  ?  '  said  she,  somewhat  disturbed  by  a  speech 
which,  for  the  first  time,  gave  the  lie  to  the  part  I  had 
assumed. 

"  '  For  a  pretty  little  child  with  curling  hair,  running, 
playing  among  the  flowers,  like  a  flower  itself  of  life  and 
love,  and  calling  you  mother  !  ' 

"I  waited  for  an  answer.  A  too-prolonged  silence  led  me 
to  perceive  the  terrible  effect  of  my  words,  though  the  dark- 
ness at  first  concealed  it.  Leaning  on  her  sofa,  the  Countess 
had  not  indeed  fainted,  but  frozen  under  a  nervous  attack  of 
which  the  first  chill,  as  gentle  as  everything  that  was  part  of  her, 
felt,  as  she  afterward  said,  like  the  influence  of  a  most  in- 
sidious poison.  I  called  Madame  Gobain,  who  came  and  led 
away  her  mistress,  laid  her  on  her  bed,  unlaced  her,  undressed 
her,  and  restored  her,  not  to  life,  it  is  true,  but  to  the  con- 
sciousness of  some  dreadful  suffering.  I  meanwhile  walked 
up  and  down  the  path  behind  the  house,  weeping,  and  doubt- 
ing my  success.  I  only  wished  to  give  up  this  part  of  the 
bird-catcher  which  I  had  so  rashly  assumed.  Madame  Gobain, 
who  came  down  and  found  me  with  my  face  wet  with  tears, 
hastily  went  upstairs  and  into  the  bedroom  again  to  say  to  the 
Countess 

"'What  has  happened,  madame?  Monsieur  Maurice  is 
crying  like  a  child.' 

"Roused  to  action  by  the  evil  interpretation  that  might  be 
put  on  our  mutual  behavior,  she  summoned  superhuman 
strength  to  put  on  a  wrapper  and  come  down  to  me. 


HONORINE.  r,$.'> 

'"You  are  not  the  cause  of  this  attack,'  said  she.  '  I  am 
subject  to  these  spasms,  a  sort  of  cramp  of  the  heart ' 

"  '  And  you  will  not  tell  me  of  your  troubles  ? '  I  asked,  in 
a  voice  which  cannot  be  affected,  as  I  wiped  away  my  tears. 
'  Have  you  not  just  now  told  me  that  you  have  been  a  mother, 
and  have  been  so  unhappy  as  to  lose  your  child  ? ' 

"  '  Marie  !  '  she  called  as  she  rang  the  bell.  Gobain 
came  in. 

"  '  Bring  lights  and  some  tea,'  said  she,  with  the  calm  deci- 
sion of  a  '  mylady '  clothed  in  the  armor  of  pride  by  the 
dreadful  English  training  which  you  know  too  well. 

"  When  the  housekeeper  had  lighted  the  tapers  and  closed 
the  shutters,  the  Countess  showed  me  a  mute  countenance ; 
her  indomitable  pride  and  gravity,  worthy  of  a  savage,  had 
already  asserted  their  mastery.  She  said — 

"  '  Do  you  know  why  I  like  Lord  Byron  so  much  ?  It  is 
because  he  suffered  as  animals  do.  Of  what  use  are  com- 
plaints when  they  are  not  an  elegy  like  Manfred's,  nor  bitter 
mockery  like  Don  Juan's,  nor  a  reverie  like  Childe  Harold's? 
Nothing  shall  be  known  of  me.  My  heart  is  a  poem  that  I 
lay  before  God.' 

"  '  If  I  chose '  said  I. 

"'If?'  she  repeated. 

"  'I  have  no  interest  in  anything,'  I  replied,  '  so  I  cannot 
be  inquisitive  ;  but,  if  I  chose,  I  could  know  all  your  secrets 
by  to-morrow.' 

'"I  defy  you  ! '  she  exclaimed,  with  ill-disguised  uneasiness. 

"'Seriously?' 

"  '  Certainly,'  said  she,  tossing  her  head.  '  If  such  a  crime 
is  possible,  I  ought  to  know  it.' 

"  '  In  the  first  place,  madame,'  I  went  on,  pointing  to  her 
hands,  « those  pretty  fingers,  which  are  enough  to  show  that 
you  are  not  a  mere  girl — were  they  made  for  toil  ?  Then  you 
call  yourself  Madame  Gobain,  you,  who,  in  my  presence  the 
other  day  on  receiving  a  letter,  said  to  Marie  :  "  Here,  this  is 


346  HONORINE. 

for  you  ? ' '  Marie  is  the  real  Madame  Gobain  ;  so  you  con- 
ceal your  name  behind  that  of  your  housekeeper.  Fear 
nothing,  madame,  from  me.  You  have  in  me  the  most  devoted 
friend  you  will  ever  have:  Friend,  do  you  understand  me? 
I  give  this  word  its  sacred  and  pathetic  meaning,  so  profaned 
in  France,  where  we  apply  it  to  our  enemies.  And  your 
friend,  who  will  defend  you  against  everything,  only  wishes 
that  you  should  be  as  happy  as  such  a  woman  ought  to  be. 
Who  can  tell  whether  the  pain  I  have  involuntarily  caused 
you  was  not  a  voluntary  act  ? ' 

"  '  Yes,'  replied  she  with  threatening  audacity,  *  I  insist  on 
it.  Be  curious,  and  tell  me  all  that  you  can  find  out  about  me ; 
but,'  and  she  held  up  her  finger,  '  you  must  also  tell  me  by 
what  means  you  obtain  your  information.  The  preservation 
of  the  small  happiness  I  enjoy  here  depends  on  the  steps  you 
take.' 

"  '  That  means  that  you  will  fly ' 


"  '  On  wings  ! '  she  cried,  '  to  the  New  World- 


"  '  Where  you  will  be  at  the  mercy  of  the  brutal  passions 
you  will  inspire,'  said  I,  interrupting  her.  '  Is  it  not  the 
very  essence  of  genius  and  beauty  to  shine,  to  attract  men's 
gaze,  to  excite  desires  and  evil  thoughts  ?  Paris  is  a  desert 
with  Bedouins ;  Paris  is  the  only  place  in  the  world  where 
those  who  must  work  for  their  livelihood  can  hide  their  life. 
What  have  you  to  complain  of?  Who  am  I?  An  additional 
servant — M.  Gobain,  that  is  all.  If  you  have  to  fight  a  duel, 
you  may  need  a  second.' 

"  '  Never  mind  ;  find  out  whom  I  am.  I  have  already  said 
that  I  insist.  Nay,  I  beg  that  you  will,'  she  went  on,  with 
the  grace  which  you  ladies  have  at  command,"  said  the  con- 
sul, looking  at  the  ladies. 

"  'Well,  then,  to-morrow,  at  the  same  hour,  I  will  tell  you 
what  I  may  have  discovered,'  replied  I.  'But  do  not  there- 
fore hate  me  !  Will  you  behave  like  other  women  ?' 

"  'What  do  other  women  do?' 


HONORINE.  347 

'  They  lay  upon  us  immense  sacrifices,  and  when  we  have 
made  them,  they  reproach  us  for  it  some  time  later  as  if  it 
were  an  injury.' 

"'They  are  right  if  the  thing  required  appears  to  be  a 
sacrifice  ! '  replied  she  pointedly. 

"  '  Instead  of  sacrifices,  say  efforts  and ' 

"  'It  would  be  an  impertinence,'  she  said. 

"  '  Forgive  me,'  I  replied.  •  I  forgot  that  woman  and  the 
pope  are  infallible.' 

"  '  Good  heavens  ! '  she  went  on,  after  a  long  pause,  '  only 
two  words  would  be  enough  to  destroy  the  peace  so  dearly 
bought,  and  which  I  enjoy  like  a  fraud ' 

"  She  arose  and  paid  no  further  heed  to  me. 

"  '  Where  can  I  go? '  she  asked.  '  What  is  to  become  of 
me  ?  Must  I  leave  this  quiet  retreat  that  I  had  arranged  with 
such  care  to  end  my  days  in  ? ' 

"'To  end  your  days !' exclaimed  I  with  visible  alarm. 
'  Has  it  never  struck  you  that  a  time  would  come  when  you 
could  no  longer  work,  when  competition  will  lower  the  price 
of  flowers  and  articles  of  fashion ?  ' 

'"I  have  already  saved  a  thousand  crowns,'  she  returned. 

"  '  Heavens  !  what  privations  must  such  a  sum  represent ! ' 
I  exclaimed. 

"'Leave  me,'  she  said,  'till  to-morrow.  This  evening  I 
am  not  myself;  I  must  be  alone.  Must  I  not  save  my  strength 
in  case  of  disaster?  For,  if  you  should  learn  anything,  others 
beside  you  would  be  informed,  and  then — Good-night,'  she 
added  shortly,  dismissing  me  with  an  imperious  gesture. 

"  '  The  battle  is  to-morrow,  then,'  I  replied  with  a  smile, 
to  keep  up  the  appearance  of  indifference  I  had  given  to  the 
scene.  But  as  I  went  down  the  avenue  I  repeated  the  words — 

"  '  The  battle  is  to-morrow.' 

"  Octave's  anxiety  was  equal  to  Honorine's.  The  Count 
and  I  remained  together  until  two  in  the  morning,  walking  back 
and  forth  by  the  trenches  of  the  bastile,  like  two  generals 


348  HONORINE. 

who,  on  the  eve  of  a  battle,  calculate  all  the  chances,  examine 
the  ground,  and  perceive  that  the  victory  must  depend  on  an 
opportunity  to  be  seized  half-way  through  the  fight.  These 
two  divided  beings  would  each  lie  awake,  one  in  the  hope,  the 
other  in  the  agonizing  dread  of  reunion.  The  real  dramas  of 
life  are  not  in  circumstances,  but  in  feelings ;  they  are  played 
in  the  heart,  or,  if  you  please,  in  that  vast  realm  which  we 
ought  to  call  the  spiritual  world.  Octave  and  Honorine 
moved  and  lived  altogether  in  the  world  of  lofty  spirits. 

"I  was  punctual.  At  ten  next  evening  I  was,  for  the  first 
time,  shown  into  a  charming  bedroom  furnished  with  white 
and  blue — the  nest  of  this  wounded  dove.  The  Countess 
looked  at  me  and  was  about  to  speak,  but  was  stricken  dumb 
by  my  respectful  demeanor. 

"  '  Madame  la  Comtesse,'  said  I  with  a  grave  .smile. 

"The  poor  woman,  who  had  risen,  dropped  back  into  her 
chair  and  remained  there,  sunk  in  an  attitude  of  grief,  which 
I  should  have  liked  to  see  perpetuated  by  a  great  painter. 

"  'You  are,'  I  went  on,  '  the  wife  of  the  noblest  and  most 
highly  respected  of  men  ;  of  a  man  who  is  acknowledged  to 
be  great,  but  who  is  far  greater  in  his  conduct  to  you  than  he 
is  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  You  and  he  are  two  lofty  natures. 
Where  do  you  suppose  yourself  to  be  living? '  I  asked  her. 

"  '  In  my  own  house,  she  replied,'  opening  her  eyes  with  a 
wide  stare  of  astonishment. 

"  '  In  Count  Octave's,'  I  replied.  /  You  have  been  tricked. 
M.  Lenormand,  the  usher  of  the  court,  is  not  the  real  owner; 
he  is  only  a  screen  for  your  husband.  The  delightful  seclusion 
you  enjoy  is  the  Count's  work,  the  money  you  earn  is  paid  by 
him,  and  his  protection  extends  to  the  most  trivial  details  of 
your  existence.  Your  husband  has  saved  you  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world ;  he  has  assigned  plausible  reasons  for  your  disap- 
pearance ;  he  professes  to  hope  that  you  were  not  lost  in  the 
wreck  of  the  "  Cecile,"  the  ship  in  which  you  sailed  for  Ha- 
vana to  secure  the  fortune  to  be  left  to  you  by  an  old  aunt,  who 


HONORINE.  349 

might  have  forgotten  you;  you  embarked,  escorted  by  two 
ladies  of  her  family  and  an  old  manservant.  The  Count  says 
that  he  has  sent  agents  to  various  spots,  and  received  letters 
which  give  him  great  hopes.  He  takes  as  many  precautions  to 
hide  you  from  all  eyes  as  you  take  yourself.  In  short,  he  obeys 
you ' 

"  '  That  is  enough,'  she  said.  '  I  want  to  know  but  one 
thing  more.  From  whom  have  you  obtained  all  these  details?' 

"'Well,  madame,  my  uncle  got  a  place  for  a  penniless 
youth  as  secretary  to  the  commissary  of  police  in  this  part  of 
Paris.  That  young  man  told  me  everything.  If  you  leave 
this  house  this  evening,  however  stealthily,  your  husband  will 
know  where  you  are  gone  and  his  care  will  follow  you  every- 
where. How  could  a  woman  so  clever  as  you  are  believe  that 
shopkeepers  buy  flowers  and  caps  as  dear  as  they  sell  them  ? 
Ask  a  thousand  crowns  for  a  bouquet,  and  you  will  get  it. 
No  mother's  tenderness  was  ever  more  ingenious  than  your 
husband's  !  I  have  learned  from  the  porter  of  this  house  that 
the  Count  often  comes  behind  the  fence  when  all  are  asleep, 
to  see  the  glimmer  of  your  night-light.  Your  large  cashmere 
shawl  cost  six  thousand  francs — your  old-clothes-seller  brings 
you,  as  second  hand,  things  fresh  from  the  best  makers.  In 
short,  you  are  living  here  like  Venus  in  the  toils  of  Vulcan  ; 
but  you  are  alone  in  your  prison  by  the  devices  of  a  sublime 
magnanimity,  sublime  for  seven  years  past,  and  at  every  hour.' 

"  The  Countess  was  trembling  as  a  trapped  swallow  trem- 
bles while,  as  you  hold  it  in  your  hand,  it  strains  its  neck  to 
look  about  it  with  wild  eyes.  She  shook  with  a  nervous 
spasm,  studying  me  with  a  defiant  look.  Her  dry  eyes  glit- 
tered with  a  light  that  was  almost  hot :  still,  she  was  a  woman ! 
The  moment  came  when  her  tears  forced  their  way,  and  she 
wept_not  because  she  was  touched,  but  because  she  was  help- 
less ;  they  were  tears  of  desperation.  She  had  believed  her- 
self  independent  and  free ;  marriage  weighed  on  her  as  the 
prison  cell  does  on  the  captive. 


350  HONORINE. 

"  '  I  will  go  !  '  she  cried  through  her  tears.  '  He  forces 
me  to  it ;  I  will  go  where  no  one  certainly  will  come  after 
me.' 

"  'What,'  I  said,  '  you  would  kill  yourself?  Madame,  you 
must  have  some  very  powerful  reasons  for  not  wishing  to  re- 
turn to  Comte  Octave.' 

"  '  Certainly  I  have  !  ' 

"'Well,  then,  tell  them  to  me;  tell  them  to  my  uncle. 
In  us  you  will  find  two  devoted  advisers.  Though  in  the 
confessional  my  uncle  is  a  priest,  he  is  never  one  in  a  draw- 
ing-room. We  will  hear  you  ;  we  will  try  to  find  a  solution 
of  the  problems  you  may  lay  before  us ;  and  if  you  are  the 
dupe  or  the  victim  of  some  misapprehension,  perhaps  we  can 
clear  the  matter  up.  Your  soul,  I  believe,  is  pure ;  but  if 

you  have  done  wrong,  your  fault  is  fully  expiated At 

any  rate,  remember  that  in  me  you  have  a  most  sincere  friend. 
If  you  should  wish  to  evade  the  Count's  tyranny,  I  will  find 
you  the  means  ;  he  shall  never  find  you.' 

"  '  Oh  !  there  is  always  a  convent  !  '  said  she. 

'"Yes.  But  the  Count,  as  minister  of  state,  can  procure 
your  rejection  by  every  convent  in  the  world.  Even  though 
he  is  powerful,  I  will  save  you  from  him  ;  but — only  when 
you  have  demonstrated  to  me  that  you  cannot  and  ought  not 
to  return  to  him.  Oh  !  do  not  fear  that  you  would  escape 
his  power  only  to  fall  into  mine,'  I  added,  noticing  a  glance 
of  horrible  suspicion,  full  of  exaggerated  dignity.  '  You  shall 
have  peace,  solitude,  and  independence ;  in  short,  you  shall 
be  as  free  and  as  little  annoyed  as  if  you  were  an  ugly,  cross 
old  maid.  I  myself  would  never  be  able  to  see  you  without 
your  consent.' 

"  '  And  how  ?     By  what  means  ?  ' 

"  '  That  is  my  secret.  I  am  not  deceiving  you,  of  that  you 
may  be  sure.  Prove  to  me  that  this  is  the  only  life  you  can 
lead,  that  it  is  preferable  to  that  of  the  Comtesse  Octave, 
rich,  admired,  in  one  of  the  finest  houses  in  Paris,  beloved 


HONORINE.  35! 

by  her  husband,  a  happy  mother and  I  will  decide  in  your 

favor. ' 

"'But,'  said  she,  'will  there  never  be  a  man  who  under- 
stands  me?' 

"'No.  And  that  is  why  I  appeal  to  religion  to  decide 
between  us.  The  cure  of  the  white  friars  is  a  saint,  seventy- 
five  years  of  age.  My  uncle  is  not  a  grand  inquisitor,  he  is  a 
Saint  John ;  but  for  you  he  will  be  Fenelon— the  Fenelon 
who  said  to  the  Due  de  Bourgogne :  "  Eat  a  calf  on  a  Friday 
by  all  means,  monseigneur.  But  be  a  Christian."  ' 

"  'Nay,  nay,  monsieur,  the  convent  is  my  last  hope  and 
my  only  refuge.  There  is  none  but  God  who  can  understand 
me.  No  man,  not  Saint  Augustine  himself,  the  tenderest  of 
the  fathers  of  the  church,  could  enter  into  the  scruples  of  my 
conscience,  which  are  to  me  as  the  circles  of  Dante's  hell, 
whence  there  is  no  escape.  Another  than  my  husband,  a 
different  man,  however  unworthy  of  the  offering,  has  had  all 
my  love.  No,  he  has  not  had  it,  for  he  did  not  take  it ;  I 
gave  it  him  as  a  mother  gives  her  child  a  wonderful  toy,  which 
it  breaks.  For  me  there  never  could  be  two  loves.  In  some 
natures  love  can  never  be  on  trial ;  it  is,  or  it  is  not.  When 
it  comes,  when  it  rises  up,  it  is  complete.  Well,  that  life  of 
eighteen  months  was  to  me  a  life  of  eighteen  years ;  I  threw 
into  it  all  the  faculties  of  my  being,  which  were  not  impov- 
erished by  their  effusiveness;  they  were  exhausted  by  that 
delusive  intimacy  in  which  I  alone  was  genuine.  For  me  the 
cup  of  happiness  is  not  drained,  nor  empty ;  and  nothing  can. 
refill  it,  for  it  is  broken.  I  am  out  of  the  fray ;  I  have  no 
weapons  left.  Having  thus  utterly  abandoned  myself,  what 
am  I  ? — the  leavings  of  a  feast.  I  had  but  one  name  bestowed 
on  me,  Honorine,  as  I  had  but  one  heart.  My  husband  had 
the  young  girl,  a  worthless  lover  had  the  woman— there  is 
nothing  left !  Then  let  myself  be  loved  !  that  is  the  great  idea 
that  you  mean  to  utter  to  me.  Oh  !  but  I  still  am  something, 
and  I  rebel  at  the  idea  of  being  a  prostitute!  Yes,  by  the 


352  HONORINE. 

light  of  the  conflagration  I  saw  clearly ;  and  I  tell  you — well, 
I  could  imagine  surrendering  to  another  man's  love,  but  to 
Octave's?  No,  never.' 

"  '  Ah  !  you  love  him,'  I  said. 

"  '  I  esteem  him,  respect  him,  venerate  him  ;  he  has  never 
done  me  the  smallest  hurt ;  he  is  kind,  he  is  tender ;  but  I 
can  never  more  love  him.  However,'  she  went  on,  'let  us 
talk  no  more  of  this.  Discussion  makes  everything  small.  I 
will  express  my  notions  on  this  subject  in  writing  to  you,  for 
at  this  moment  they  are  suffocating  me ;  I  am  feverish,  my 
feet  are  standing  in  the  ashes  of  my  paraclete.  All  that  I  see, 
these  things  which  I  believed  I  had  earned  by  my  labor,  now 
remind  me  of  everything  I  wish  to  forget.  Ah  !  I  must  fly 
from  hence  as  I  fled  from  my  home.' 

'"Where  will  you  go?'  I  asked.  'Can  a  woman  exist 
unprotected  ?  At  thirty,  in  all  the  glory  of  your  beauty,  rich 
in  powers  of  which  you  have  no  suspicion,  full  of  tenderness 
to  be  bestowed,  are  you  prepared  to  live  in  the  wilderness 
where  I  could  hide  you  ?  Be  quite  easy.  The  Count,  who 
for  nine  years  has  never  allowed  himself  to  be  seen  here,  will 
never  go  there  without  your  permission.  You  have  his  sub- 
lime devotion  of  nine  years  as  a  guarantee  for  your  tranquillity. 
You  may  therefore  discuss  the  future  in  perfect  confidence 
with  my  uncle  and  me.  My  uncle  has  as  much  influence  as  a 
minister  of  state.  So  compose  yourself;  do  not  exaggerate 
your  misfortune.  A  priest  whose  hair  has  grown  white  in  the 
exercise  of  his  functions  is  not  a  boy ;  you  will  be  understood 
by  him  to  whom  every  passion  has  been  confided  for  nearly 
fifty  years  now,  and  who  weighs  in  his  hands  the  ponderous 
heart  of  kings  and  princes.  If  he  is  stern  under  his  stole,  in 
the  presence  of  your  flowers  he  will  be  as  tender  as  they  are, 
and  as  indulgent  as  his  Divine  Master.' 

"  I  left  the  Countess  at  midnight ;  she  was  apparently 
calm,  but  depressed,  and  had  some  secret  purpose  which  no 
perspicacity  could  guess.  I  found  the  Count  a  few  paces  off, 


HONORINE.  353 

in  the  Rue  Saint-Maur.  Drawn  by  an  irresistible  attraction 
he  had  quitted  the  spot  on  the  boulevards  where  we  had 
agreed  to  meet. 

"  '  What  a  night  my  poor  child  will  go  through  ! '  he  ex- 
claimed, when  I  had  finished  my  account  of  the  scene  that 
had  just  taken  place.  '  Supposing  I  were  to  go  to  her  ? '  he 
added  ;  '  supposing  she  were  to  see  me  suddenly  ? ' 

"  '  At  this  moment  she  is  capable  of  throwing  herself  out 
of  the  window,'  I  replied.  'The  Countess  is  one  of  those 
Lucretias  who  could  not  survive  any  violence,  even  if  it  were 
done  by  a  man  into  whose  arms  she  could  throw  herself.1 

"  '  You  are  young,'  he  answered  ;  '  you  do  not  know  that 
in  a  soul  tossed  by  such  dreadful  alternatives  the  will  is  like 
the  waters  of  a  lake  lashed  by  a  tempest ;  the  wind  changes 
every  instant,  and  the  waves  are  driven  now  to  one  shore, 
now  to  the  other.  During  this  night  the  chances  are  quite  as 
great  that  on  seeing  me  Honorine  might  rush  into  my  arms  as 
that  she  should  throw  herself  out  of  the  window.' 

"  '  And  you  would  accept  the  equal  chances  ? '  said  I  inter- 
rogatively. 

"  '  Well,  come,'  said  he,  '  I  have  at  home,  to  enable  me  to 
wait  until  to-morrow,  a  dose  of  opium  which  Desplein  pre- 
pared for  me  to  send  me  to  sleep  without  any  risk  !' 

"  Next  day  at  noon  Gobain  brought  me  a  letter,  telling  me 
that  the  Countess  had  gone  to  bed  at  six,  worn  out  with 
fatigue,  and  that,  having  taken  a  soothing  draught  prepared 
by  the  chemist,  she  had  now  fallen  asleep. 

"  This  is  her  letter,  of  which  I  kept  a  copy— for  you, 
mademoiselle,"  said  the  consul,  addressing  Camille,  "know 
all  the  resources  of  art,  the  tricks  of  style,  and  the  efforts 
made  in  their  compositions  by  writers  who  do  not  lack  skill ; 
but  you  will  acknowledge  that  literature  could  never  find  such 
language  in  its  assumed  pathos;  there  is  nothing  so  terrible  as 
truth.  Here  is  the  letter  written  by  this  woman,  or  rather  by 
this  anguish : 
23 


354  HONORINE. 

"  '  MONSIEUR  MAURICE: — I  know  all  your  uncle  could  say 
to  me ;  he  is  not  better  informed  than  my  own  conscience. 
Conscience  is  the  interpreter  of  God  to  man.  I  know  that 
if  I  am  not  reconciled  to  Octave,  I  shall  be  damned  ;  that  is 
the  sentence  of  religious  law.  Civil  law  condemns  me  to 
obey,  cost  what  it  may.  If  my  husband  does  not  reject  me, 
the  world  will  regard  me  as  pure,  as  virtuous,  whatever  I  may 
have  done.  Yes,  that  much  is  sublime  in  marriage :  society 
ratifies  the  husband's  forgiveness ;  but  it  forgets  that  the  for- 
giveness must  be  accepted.  Legally,  religiously,  and  from 
the  world's  point  of  view  I  ought  to  go  back  to  Octave. 
Keeping  only  to  the  human  aspect  of  the  question,  is  it  not 
cruel  to  refuse  him  happiness,  to  deprive  him  of  children,  to 
wipe  his  name  out  of  the  "  Golden  Book  "  and  the  list  of 
peers  ?  My  sufferings,  my  repugnance,  •  my  feelings,  all  my 
egoism — for  I  know  that  I  am  an  egoist — ought  to  be  sacri- 
ficed to  the  family.  I  shall  be  a  mother ;  the  caresses  of  my 
child  will  wipe  away  many  tears  !  I  shall  be  very  happy ;  I 
certainly  shall  be  much  looked  up  to.  I  shall  ride,  haughty 
and  wealthy,  in  a  handsome  carriage  !  I  shall  have  servants 
and  a  fine  house,  and  be  the  queen  of  as  many  parties  as  there 
are  weeks  in  the  year.  The  world  will  receive  me  hand- 
somely. I  shall  not  have  to  climb  up  again  to  the  heaven  of 
aristocracy,  I  shall  never  have  come  down  from  it.  So  God, 
the  law,  society  are  all  in  accord. 

"  ' (t  What  are  you  rebelling  against?"  I  am  asked  from 
the  height  of  heaven,  from  the  pulpit,  from  the  judge's  bench, 
and  from  the  throne,  whose  august  intervention  may  at  need 
be  invoked  by  the  court.  Your  uncle,  indeed,  at  need,  would 
speak  to  me  of  a  certain  celestial  grace  which  will  flood  my 
heart  when  I  know  the  pleasure  of  doing  my  duty. 

" '  God,  the  law,  the  world,  and  Octave  all  wish  me  to  live, 
no  doubt.  Well,  if  there  is  no  other  difficulty,  my  reply  cuts 
the  knot :  I  will  not  live.  I  will  become  quite  white  and 
innocent  again ;  for  I  will  lie  in  my  shroud,  white  with  the 


HONOR1NE.  :j.v, 

blameless  pallor  of  death.  This  is  not  in  the  least  "  mulish 
obstinacy."  That  mulish  obstinacy  of  which  you  jestingly 
accused  me  is  in  a  woman  the  result  of  confidence,  of  a  vision 
of  the  future.  Though  my  husband,  sublimely  generous, 
may  forget  all,  I  shall  not  forget.  Does  forgetfulness  depend 
on  our  will  ?  When  a  widow  remarries,  love  makes  a  girl  of 
her ;  she  marries  a  man  she  loves.  But  I  cannot  love  the 
Count.  It  all  lies  in  that,  do  you  not  see? 

"  '  Every  time  my  eyes  met  his  I  should  see  my  sin  in  them, 
even  when  his  were  full  of  love.  The  greatness  of  his  gener- 
osity would  be  the  measure  of  the  greatness  of  my  crime. 
My  eyes,  always  uneasy,  would  be  for  ever  reading  an  invis- 
ible condemnation.  My  heart  would  be  full  of  confused  and 
struggling  memories ;  marriage  can  never  move  me  to  the 
cruel  rapture,  the  mortal  delirium  of  passion.  I  should  kill 
my  husband  by  my  coldness,  by  comparisons  with  which  he 
would  guess,  though  hidden  in  the  depths  of  my  conscience. 
Oh  !  on  the  day  when  I  should  read  a  trace  of  involuntary, 
even  of  suppressed  reproach  in  a  furrow  on  his  brow,  in  a 
saddened  look,  in  some  imperceptible  gesture,  nothing  could 
hold  me :  I  should  be  lying  with  a  fractured  skull  on  the 
pavement,  and  find  that  less  hard  than  my  husband.  It 
might  be  my  own  over-susceptibility  that  would  lead  me  to 
this  horrible  but  welcome  death  ;  I  might  die  the  victim  of 
an  impatient  mood  in  Octave  caused  by  some  matter  of  busi- 
ness, or  be  deceived  by  some  unjust  suspicion.  Alas !  I  might 
even  mistake  some  proof  of  love  for  a  sign  of  contempt ! 

"  '  What  torture  on  both  sides !  Octave  would  be  always 
doubting  me,  I  doubting  him.  I,  quite  involuntarily,  should 
give  him  a  rival  wholly  unworthy  of  him,  a  man  whom  I 
despise,  but  with  whom  I  have  known  raptures  branded  on  me 
with  fire,  which  are  my  shame,  but  which  I  cannot  forget. 

"'Have  I  shown  you  enough  of  my  heart?  No  one, 
monsieur,  can  convince  me  that  love  may  be  renewed,  for  I 
neither  can  nor  will  accept  love  from  any  one.  A  young  bride 


356  HONORINE. 

is  like  a  plucked  flower  ;  but  a  guilty  wife  is  like  a  flower  that 
has  been  walked  over.  You,  who  are  a  florist,  you  know 
whether  it  is  ever  possible  to  restore  the  broken  stem,  to 
revive  the  faded  colors,  to  make  the  sap  flow  again  in  the 
tender  vessels  of  which  the  whole  vegetative  function  lies  in 
their  perfect  rigidity.  If  some  botanist  should  attempt  the 
operation,  could  his  genius  smooth  out  the  folds  of  the 
bruised  corolla  ?  If  he  could  remake  a  flower,  he  would  be 
God.  God  alone  can  remake  me  !  I  am  drinking  the  bitter 
cup  of  expiation  ;  but  as  I  drink  it  I  painfully  spell  out  this 
sentence  :  Expiation  is  not  annihilation. 

'"In  my  little  house,  alone,  I  eat  my  bread  soaked  in 
tears ;  but  no  one  sees  me  eat  nor  sees  me  weep.  If  I  go 
back  to  Octave,  I  must  give  up  my  tears — they  would  offend 
him.  Oh  !  monsieur,  how  many  virtues  must  a  woman  tread 
under  foot,  not  to  give  herself,  but  to  restore  herself  to  a 
betrayed  husband  ?  Who  could  count  them  ?  God  alone ; 
for  He  alone  can  know  and  encourage  the  horrible  refinements 
at  which  the  angels  must  turn  pale.  Nay,  I  will  go  further. 
A  woman  has  courage  in  the  presence  of  her  husband  if  he 
knows  nothing ;  she  shows  a  sort  of  fierce  strength  in  her 
hypocrisy ;  she  deceives  him  to  secure  him  double  happiness. 
But  common  knowledge  is  surely  degrading.  Supposing  I 
could  exchange  humiliation  for  ecstasy?  Would  not  Octave 
at  last  feel  that  my  consent  was  sheer  depravity?  Marriage 
is  based  on  esteem,  on  sacrifices  on  both  sides ;  but  neither 
Octave  nor  I  could  esteem  each  other  the  day  after  our  re- 
union. He  would  have  disgraced  me  by  a  love  like  that  of 
an  old  man  for  a  courtesan,  and  I  should  for  ever  feel  the 
shame  of  being  a  chattel  instead  of  a  lady.  I  should  repre- 
sent pleasure,  and  not  virtue,  in  his  house.  These  are  the 
bitter  fruits  of  such  a  sin.  I  have  made  myself  a  bed  of  an- 
guish upon  which  I  can  only  toss  on  burning  coals,  a  sleepless 
pillow. 

'"  Here,  when  I  suffer,  I  bless  my  sufferings ;  I  say  to  God, 


HONORINE. 

..•I, 

"  I  thank  Thee  !  "  But  in  my  husband's  house  I  should  be 
full  of  terror,  tasting  joys  to  which  I  have  no  right. 

"  <  All  this,  monsieur,  is  not  argument ;  it  is  the  feeling  of 
a  soul  made  vast  and  hollow  by  seven  years  of  suffering. 
Finally,  must  I  make  a  horrible  confession  ?  I  shall  always 
feel  at  my  bosom  the  lips  of  a  child  conceived  in  rapture  and 
joy,  and  in  the  belief  in  happiness,  of  a  child  I  nursed  for 
seven  months,  that  I  shall  bear  in  my  womb  all  the  days  of 
my  life.  If  other  children  should  draw  their  nourishment 
from  me,  they  would  drink  in  tears  mingling  with  the  milk 
and  turning  it  sour.  I  seem  a  light  thing,  you  regard  me  as 
a  child — Ah  yes  !  I  have  a  child's  memory,  the  memory  which 
returns  to  us  on  the  verge  of  the  tomb.  So,  you  see,  there  is 
not  a  situation  in  that  beautiful  life  to  which  the  world  and 
my  husband's  love  want  to  recall  me,  which  is  not  a  false 
position,  which  does  not  cover  a  snare  or  reveal  a  precipice 
down  which  I  must  fall,  torn  by  pitiless  rocks.  For  five  years 
now  I  have  been  wandering  in  the  sandy  desert  of  the  future 
without  finding  a  place  convenient  to  repent  in,  because  my 
soul  is  possessed  by  true  repentance. 

"  '  Religion  has  its  answers  ready  to  all  this,  and  I  know 
them  by  heart.  This  suffering,  these  difficulties,  are  my  pun- 
ishment, she  says,  and  God  will  give  me  strength  to  endure 
them.  This,  monsieur,  is  an  argument  to  certain  pious  souls 
gifted  with  an  energy  which  I  have  not.  I  have  made  my 
choice  between  this  hell,  where  God  does  not  forbid  my 
blessing  Him,  and  the  hell  that  awaits  me  under  Count 
Octave's  roof. 

"  '  One  word  more.  If  I  were  still  a  girl,  with  the  experi- 
ence I  now  have,  my  husband  is  the  man  I  should  choose  ;  but 
that  is  the  very  reason  of  my  refusal.  I  could  not  bear  to 
blush  before  that  man.  What !  I  should  be  always  on  my 
knees,  he  always  standing  upright ;  and  if  we  were  to  ex- 
change positions,  I  should  scorn  him  !  I  will  not  be  better 
treated  by  him  in  consequence  of  my  sin.  The  angel  who 


358  HONORINE. 

might  venture  under  such  circumstances  on  certain  liberties, 
which  are  permissible  when  both  are  equally  blameless,  is  not 
on  earth ;  he  dwells  in  heaven  !  Octave  is  full  of  delicate 
feeling,  I  know ;  but  even  in  his  soul  (which,  however  gener- 
ous, is  a  man's  soul  after  all)  there  is  no  guarantee  for  the 
new  life  I  should  lead  with  him. 

"  'Come,  then,  and  tell  me  where  I  may  find  the  solitude, 
the  peace,  the  silence,  so  kindly  to  irreparable  woes,  which 
you  promised  me.' 

"  After  making  this  copy  of  the  letter  to  preserve  it  com- 
plete, I  went  to  the  Rue  Payenne.  Anxiety  had  conquered 
the  power  of  opium.  Octave  was  walking  up  and  down  his 
garden  like  a  madman. 

"'Answer  that!'  said  I,  giving  him  his  wife's  letter. 
'  Try  to  reassure  the  modesty  of  experience.  It  is  rather 
more  difficult  than  conquering  the  modesty  of  ignorance, 
which  curiosity  helps  to  betray.' 

"  '  She  is  mine !  '  cried  the  Count,  whose  face  expressed 
joy  as  he  went  on  reading  the  letter. 

"  He  signed  to  me  with  his  hand  to  leave  him  to  himself. 
I  understood  that  extreme  happiness  and  extreme  pain  obey 
the  same  laws :  I  went  in  to  receive  Madame  de  Courteville 
and  Amelie,  who  were  to  dine  with  the  Count  that  day. 
However  handsome  Mademoiselle  de  Courteville  might  be,  I 
felt,  on  seeing  her  once  more,  that  love  has  three  aspects, 
and  that  the  women  who  can  inspire  us  with  perfect  love  are 
very  rare.  As  I  involuntarily  compared  Amelie  with  Honor- 
ine,  I  found  the  erring  wife  more  attractive  than  the  pure 
girl.  To  Honorine's  heart  fidelity  had  not  been  a  duty,  but 
the  inevitable ;  while  Amelie  would  serenely  pronounce  the 
most  solemn  promises  without  knowing  their  purport  or  to 
what  they  bound  her.  The  crushed,  the  dead  woman,  so  to 
speak,  the  sinner  to  be  reinstated,  seemed  to  me  sublime; 
she  incited  the  special  generosities  of  a  man's  nature ;  she 


HONORINE.  359 

demanded  all  the  treasures  of  the  heart,  all  the  resources  of 
strength  ;  she  filled  his  life  and  gave  the  zest  of  a  conflict  to 
happiness;  whereas  Amelie,  chaste  and  confiding,  would 
settle  down  into  the  sphere  of  peaceful  motherhood,  where 
the  commonplace  must  be  its  poetry,  and  where  my  mind 
would  find  no  struggle  and  no  victory. 

"  Of  the  plains  of  Champagne  and  the  snowy,  storm-beaten 
but  sublime  Alps,  what  young  man  would  choose  the  chalky, 
monotonous  level  ?  No ;  such  comparisons  are  fatal  and 
wrong  on  the  threshold  of  the  mairie.  Alas  !  only  the  ex- 
perience of  life  can  teach  us  that  marriage  excludes  passion, 
that  a  family  cannot  have  its  foundation  on  the  tempests  of 
love.  After  having  dreamed  of  impossible  love,  with  its  in- 
finite caprices,  after  having  tasted  the  tormenting  delights  of 
the  ideal,  I  saw  before  me  modest  reality.  Pity  me,  for  what 
could  be  expected!  At  twenty-five  I  did  not  trust  myself; 
but  I  took  a  manly  resolution. 

"  I  went  back  to  the  Count  to  announce  the  arrival  of  his 
relations,  and  I  saw  him  grown  young  again  in  the  reflected 
light  of  hope. 

"  '  What  ails  you,  Maurice?'  said  he,  struck  by  my  changed 
expression. 

"  '  Monsieur  le  Comte ' 

'"No  longer  Octave?  You,  to  whom  I  shall  owe  my 
life,  my  happiness 

"  '  My  dear  Octave,  if  you  should  succeed  in  bringing  the 
Countess  back  to  her  duty,  I  have  studied  her  well  '—(he 
looked  at  me  as  Othello  must  have  looked  at  lago  when  lago 
first  contrived  to  insinuate  a  suspicion  into  the  Moor's  mind) 
— '  she  must  never  see  me  again  ;  she  must  never  know  that 
Maurice  was  your  secretary.  Never  mention  my  name  to  her, 
or  all  will  be  undone—  You  have  gotten  me  an  appoint- 
ment as  mattre  des  requetes*— well,  get  me  instead  some  diplo- 
matic post  abroad,  a  consulship,  and  do  not  think  of  my 
*  Chief  of  Requests  (a  Court  Judge). 


360  HONORINE. 

marrying  Amelia.  Oh  !  do  not  be  uneasy,'  I  added,  seeing 
him  draw  himself  up,  '  I  will  play  my  part  to  the  end.' 

"  '  Poor  boy  !  '  said  he,  taking  my  hand,  which  he  pressed, 
while  he  kept  back  the  tears  that  were  starting  to  his  eyes. 

"  'You  gave  me  gloves,'  I  said,  laughing,  '  but  I  have  not 
put  them  on  ;  that  is  all.' 

"  We  then  agreed  as  to  what  I  was  to  do  that  evening  at 
Honorine's  house,  whither  I  presently  returned.  It  was  now 
August ;  the  day  had  been  hot  and  stormy,  but  the  storm 
hung  overhead,  the  sky  was  like  copper ;  the  scent  of  the 
flowers  was  heavy,  I  felt  as  if  I  were  in  an  oven,  and  caught 
myself  wishing  that  the  Countess  might  have  set  out  for  the 
Indies ;  but  she  was  sitting  on  a  wooden  bench  shaped  like  a 
sofa,  under  an  arbor,  in  a  loose  dress  of  white  muslin  fastened 
with  blue  bows,  her  hair  unadorned  in  waving  bands  over  her 
cheeks,  her  feet  on  a  small  wooden  stool,  and  showing  a  little 
way  beyond  her  skirt.  She  did  not  rise  ;  she  showed  me 
with  her  hand  to  the  seat  by  her  side,  saying — 

"  '  Now,  is  not  life  at  a  deadlock  for  me  ? ' 

"  '  Life  as  you  have  made  it,'  I  replied.  '  But  not  the  life 
I  propose  to  make  for  you  ;  for,  if  you  choose,  you  may  be 
very  happy ' 

"  '  How  ?  '  said  she  ;  her  whole  person  was  a  question. 

"  'Your  letter  is  in  the  Count's  hands.' 

"  Honorine  started  like  a  frightened  doe,  sprang  to  a  few 
paces  off,  walked  down  the  garden,  turned  about,  remained 
standing  for  some  minutes,  and  finally  went  in  to  sit  alone  in 
the  drawing-room,  where  I  joined  her,  after  giving  her  time 
to  get  accustomed  to  the  pain  of  this  poniard  thrust. 

"  '  You — a  friend?  Say  rather  a  traitor  !  A  spy,  perhaps, 
sent  by  my  husband.' 

"  Instinct  in  women  is  as  strong  as  the  perspicacity  of  great 
men. 

"  '  You  wanted  an  answer  to  your  letter,  did  you  not  ?  And 
there  was  but  one  man  in  the  world  who  could  write  it.  You 


HONORINE.  ggj 

must  read  the  reply,  my  dear  Countess;  and  if  after  reading 
it  you  still  find  that  your  life  is  a  deadlock,  the  spy  will  prove 
himself  a  friend;  I  will  place  you  in  a  convent  whence  the 
Count's  power  cannot  drag  you.  But,  before  going  there,  let 
us  consider  the  other  side  of  the  question.  There  is  a  law, 
alike  divine  and  human,  which  even  hatred  affects  to  obey' 
and  which  commands  us  not  to  condemn  the  accused  without 
hearing  his  defense.  Till  now  you  have  passed  condemna- 
tion, as  children  do,  with  your  ears  stopped.  The  devotion 
of  seven  years  has  its  claims.  So  you  must  read  the  answer 
your  husband  will  send  you.  I  have  forwarded  to  him, 
through  my  uncle,  a  copy  of  your  letter,  and  my  uncle  asked 
him  what  his  reply  would  be  if  his  wife  wrote  him  a  letter  in 
such  terms.  Thus  you  are  not  compromised.  He  will  him- 
self bring  the  Count's  answer.  In  the  presence  of  that  saintly 
man,  and  in  mine,  out  of  respect  for  your  own  dignity,  you 
must  read  it,  or  you  will  be  no  better  than  a  willful,  passionate 
child.  You  must  make  this  sacrifice  to  the  world,  to  the  law, 
and  to  God.' 

"As  she  saw  in  this  concession  no  attack  on  her  womanly 
resolve,  she  consented.  All  the  labor  of  four  or  five  months 
had  been  building  up  to  this  moment.  But  do  not  the  pyra- 
mids end  in  a  point  on  which  a  bird  may  perch  ?  The  Count 
had  set  all  his  hopes  on  this  supreme  instant,  and  he  had 
reached  it. 

"  In  all  my  life  I  remember  nothing  more  formidable  than 
my  uncle's  entrance  into  that  little  pompadour  drawing-room, 
at  ten  that  evening.  The  fine  head  with  its  silver  hair  thrown 
into  relief  by  the  entirely  black  dress,  and  the  divinely  calm 
face,  had  a  magical  effect  on  the  Comtesse  Honorine;  she 
had  the  feeling  of  cool  balm  on  her  wounds,  and  beamed  in 
the  reflection  of  that  virtue  which  gave  light  without  know- 
ing it. 

"  'Monsieur  the  Cur6  of  the  White  Friars,'  said  old  Go- 
bain. 


362  HONORINE. 

"  '  Are  you  come,  uncle,  with  a  message  of  happiness  and 
peace  ? '  said  I. 

"  '  Happiness  and  peace  are  always  to  be  found  in  obedi- 
ence to  the  precepts  of  the  church,'  replied  my  uncle,  and  he 
handed  the  Countess  the  following  letter : 

" '  MY  DEAR  HONORINE  : — If  you  had  but  done  me  the 
favor  of  trusting  me,  if  you  had  read  the  letter  I  wrote  to 
you  five  years  since,  you  would  have  spared  yourself  five  years 
of  useless  labor  and  of  privations  which  have  grieved  me 
deeply.  In  it  I  proposed  an  arrangement  of  which  the  stipula- 
tions will  relieve  all  your  fears,  and  make  our  domestic  life 
possible.  I  have  much  to  reproach  myself  with,  and  in  seven 
years  of  sorrow  I  have  discovered  all  my  errors.  I  misunder- 
stood marriage.  I  failed  to  scent  danger  when  it  threatened 
you.  An  angel  was  in  my  house.  The  Lord  bade  me  guard 
it  well !  The  Lord  has  punished  me  for  my  audacious  confi- 
dence. 

"  'You  cannot  give  yourself  a  single  lash  without  striking 
me.  Have  mercy  on  me,  my  dear  Honorine.  I  so  fully  ap- 
preciated your  susceptibilities  that  I  would  not  bring  you  back 
to  the  old  house  in  the  Rue  Payenne,  where  I  can  live  without 
you,  but  which  I  could  not  bear  to  see  again  with  you.  I  am 
decorating,  with  great  pleasure,  another  house,  in  the  Fau- 
bourg Saint-Honore,  to  which,  in  hope,  I  conduct  not  a  wife 
whom  I  owe  to  her  ignorance  of  life,  and  secured  to  me  by 
law,  but  a  sister  who  will  allow  me  to  press  on  her  brow  such 
a  kiss  as  a  father  gives  the  daughter  he  blesses  every  day. 

"  '  Will  you  bereave  me  of  the  right  I  have  conquered  from 
your  despair — that  of  watching  more  closely  over  your  needs, 
your  pleasures,  your  life  even  ?  Women  have  one  heart  always 
on  their  side,  always  abounding  in  excuses — their  mother's ; 
you  never  knew  any  mother  but  my  mother,  who  would  have 
brought  you  back  to  me.  But  how  is  it  that  you  never  guessed 
that  I  had  for  you  the  heart  of  a  mother,  both  of  my  mother 


HONORINE. 

and  of  your  own  ?  Yes,  dear,  my  affection  is  neither  mean 
nor  grasping;  it  is  one  of  those  which  will  never  let  any 
annoyance  last  long  enough  to  pucker  the  brow  of  the  child 
it  worships.  What  can  you  think  of  the  companion  of  your 
childhood,  Honorine,  if  you  believe  him  capable  of  accepting 
kisses  given  in  trembling,  of  living  between  delight  and 
anxiety?  Do  not  fear  that  you  will  be  exposed  to  the  laments 
of  a  suppliant  passion  ;  I  would  not  want  you  back  until  I  felt 
certain  of  my  own  strength  to  leave  you  in  perfect  freedom. 

"  '  Your  solitary  pride  has  exaggerated  the  difficulties.  You 
may,  if  you  will,  look  on  at  the  life  of  a  brother,  or  of  a  father, 
without  either  suffering  or  joy ;  but  you  will  find  neither 
mockery  nor  indifference,  nor  have  any  doubt  as  to  his  inten- 
tions. The  warmth  of  the  atmosphere  in  which  you  live  will 
be  always  equable  and  genial,  without  tempests,  without  a 
possible  squall.  If,  later,  when  you  feel  secure  that  you  are 
as  much  at  home  as  in  your  own  little  house,  you  desire  to 
try  some  other  elements  of  happiness,  pleasures,  or  amuse- 
ments, you  can  expand  their  circle  at  your  will.  The  tender- 
ness of  a  mother  knows  neither  contempt  nor  pity.  What  is 
it?  Love  without  desire.  Well,  in  me  admiration  shall  hide 
every  sentiment  in  which  you  might  see  an  offense. 

"  '  Thus,  living  side  by  side,  we  may  both  be  magnanimous. 
In  you  the  kindness  of  a  sister,  the  affectionate  thoughtfulness 
of  a  friend,  will  satisfy  the  ambition  of  him  who  wishes  to  be 
your  life's  companion  ;  and  you  may  measure  his  tenderness 
by  the  care  he  will  take  to  conceal  it.  Neither  you  nor  I  will 
be  jealous  of  the  past,  for  we  may  each  acknowledge  that  the 
other  has  sense  enough  to  look  only  straightforward. 

"  '  Thus  you  will  be  at  home  in  your  new  house  exactly  as 
you  are  in  the  Rue  Saint-Maur ;  unapproachable,  alone,  occu- 
pied as  you  please,  living  by  your  own  law ;  but  having  in 
addition  the  legitimate  protection,  of  which  you  are  now 
exacting  the  most  chivalrous  labors  of  love,  with  the  con- 
sideration which  lends  so  much  lustre  to  a  woman,  and  the 


364  HONORINE. 

fortune  which  will  allow  of  your  doing  many  good  works. 
Honorine,  when  you  long  for  an  unnecessary  absolution, 
you  have  only  to  ask  for  it ;  it  will  not  be  forced  upon  you 
by  the  church  or  by  the  law ;  it  will  wait  on  your  pride,  on 
your  own  impulsion.  My  wife  might  indeed  have  to  fear  all 
the  things  you  dread;  but  not  my  friend  and  sister,  toward 
whom  I  am  bound  to  show  every  form  and  refinement  of 
politeness.  To  see  you  happy  is  enough  happiness  for  me ; 
I  have  proved  this  for  these  seven  years  past.  The  guarantee 
for  this,  Honorine,  is  to  be  seen  in  all  the  flowers  made  by 
you,  carefully  preserved,  and  watered  by  my  tears.  Like  the 
quipos,  the  tally  cords  of  the  Peruvians,  they  are  the  record 
of  our  sorrows. 

"  '  If  this  secret  compact  does  not  suit  you,  my  child,  I 
have  begged  the  saintly  man  who  takes  charge  of  this  letter 
not  to  say  a  word  in  my  behalf.  I  will  not  owe  your  return 
to  the  terrors  threatened  by  the  church,  nor  to  the  bidding  of 
the  law.  I  will  not  accept  the  simple  and  quiet  happiness 
that  I  ask  from  any  one  but  yourself.  If  you  persist  in  con- 
demning me  to  the  lonely  life,  bereft  even  of  a  fraternal 
smile,  which  I  have  led  for  nine  years,  if  you  remain  in  your 
solitude  and  show  no  sign,  my  will  yields  to  yours.  Under- 
stand me  perfectly :  you  shall  be  no  more  troubled  than  you 
have  been  until  this  day.  I  will  get  rid  of  the  crazy  fellow 
who  has  meddled  in  your  concerns  and  has,  perhaps,  caused 
you  some  annoyance ' 

"  '  Monsieur,'  said  Honorine,  folding  up  the  letter,  which 
she  placed  in  her  bosom,  and  looking  at  my  uncle,  '  thank 
you  very  much.  I  will  avail  myself  of  Monsieur  le  Comte's 
permission  to  remain  here ' 

"'Ah!  '  I  exclaimed. 

"This  exclamation  made  my  uncle  look  at  me  uneasily, 
and  won  from  the  Countess  a  mischievous  glance  which  en- 
lightened me  as  to  her  motives. 


HONORIXE.  36-, 

"  Honorine  had  wanted  to  ascertain  whether  I  was  an 
actor,  a  bird-snarer ;  and  I  had  the  melancholy  satisfaction 
of  deceiving  her  by  my  exclamation,  which  was  one  of  those 
cries  from  the  heart  which  women  understand  so  well. 

"  '  Ah,  Maurice,'  said  she,  '  you  know  how  to  love.' 

"  The  light  that  flashed  in  my  eyes  was  another  reply  which 
would  have  dissipated  the  Countess'  uneasiness  if  she  still  had 
any.  Thus  the  Count  found  me  useful  to  the  very  last. 

"  Honorine  then  took  out  the  Count's  letter  again  to  finish 
reading  it.  My  uncle  signed  to  me,  and  I  arose. 

"  '  Let  us  leave  the  Countess,'  said  he. 

"'You  are  going  already,  Maurice?'  she  said,  without 
looking  at  me. 

"  She  arose,  and  still  reading,  followed  us  to  the  door.  On 
the  threshold  she  took  my  hand,  pressed  it  very  affectionately, 
and  said,  '  We  shall  meet  again — 

"  '  No,'  I  replied,  wringing  her  hand,  so  that  she  cried  out. 
'You  love  your  husband.  I  leave  to-morrow.' 

"  And  I  rushed  away,  leaving  my  uncle,  of  whom  she  asked : 

"  '  Why,  what  is  the  matter  with  your  nephew?' 

"  The  good  Abbe  completed  my  work  by  pointing  to  his 
head  and  heart,  as  much  as  to  say,  '  He  is  mad,  madame ;  you 
must  forgive  him  ! '  and  with  all  the  more  truth,  because  he 
really  thought  it. 

"  Six  days  after  I  set  out  with  an  appointment  as  vice- 
consul  in  Spain,  in  a  large  commercial  town,  where  I  could 
quickly  qualify  to  rise  in  the  career  of  a  consul,  to  which  I 
now  restricted  my  ambition.  After  I  had  established  myself 
there,  I  received  this  letter  from  the  Count : 

"  '  MY  DEAR  MAURICE: — If  I  were  happy,  I  should  not 
write  to  you,  but  I  have  entered  on  a  new  life  of  suffering.  I 
have  grown  young  again  in  my  desires,  with  all  the  impatience 
of  a  man  of  forty  and  the  prudence  of  a  diplomatist,  who 
has  learned  to  moderate  his  passion.  When  you  left  I  had 


366  HONORINE. 

not  yet  been  admitted  to  the  pavilion  in  the  Rue  Saint-Maur, 
but  a  letter  had  promised  me  that  I  should  have  permission — 
the  mild  and  melancholy  letter  of  a  woman  who  dreaded  the 
agitations  of  a  meeting.  After  waiting  for  more  than  a  month, 
I  made  bold  to  call,  and  desired  Gobain  to  inquire  whether  I 
could  be  received.  I  sat  down  in  a  chair  in  the  avenue  near 
the  lodge,  my  head  buried  in  my  hands,  and  there  I  remained 
for  almost  an  hour. 

««<  "Madame  had  to  dress,"  said  Gobain,  to  hide  Honorine's 
hesitancy  under  a  pride  of  appearance  which  was  flattering 
to  me. 

"  '  During  a  long  quarter  of  an  hour  we  both  of  us  were 
possessed  by  an  involuntary  nervous  trembling  as  great  as  that 
which  seizes  a  speaker  on  the  platform,  and  we  spoke  to  each 
other  in  scared  phrases  like  those  of  persons  taken  by  surprise 
who  "make  believe"  a  conversation. 

«  t  a  you  see,  Honorine,"  said  I,  my  eyes  full  of  tears,  "  the 
ice  is  broken,  and  I  am  so  tremulous  with  happiness  that  you 
must  forgive  the  incoherency  of  my  language.  It  will  be  so 
for  a  long  time  yet." 

"  '  "  There  is  no  crime  in  being  in  love  with  your  wife," 
she  returned  with  a  forced  smile. 

"  '  "Do  me  the  favor,"  said  I, ."  no  longer  to  work  as  you 
do.  I  have  heard  from  Madame  Gobain  that  for  three  weeks 
you  have  been  living  on  your  savings ;  you  have  sixty  thousand 
francs  a  year  of  your  own,  and  if  you  cannot  give  me  back 
your  heart  at  least  do  not  abandon  your  fortune  to  me." 

"  <  "  J  have  long  known  your  kindness,"  said  she. 

"  '  "Though  you  should  prefer  to  remain  here,"  I  added 
impressively,  "  and  to  preserve  your  independence;  though  the 
most  ardent  love  should  find  no  favor  in  your  eyes,  still  do 
not  toil." 

"'I  gave  her  three  certificates  for  twelve  thousand  francs  a 
year  each ;  she  took  them,  opened  them  languidly,  and  after 
reading  them  through  she  gave  me  only  a  look  as  my  reward. 


'/    AM    CONQUERED,"    SAID    SHE. 


HONORINE.  w 

oOi 

She  fully  understood  that  I  was  not  offering  her  money,  but 
freedom. 

"'"1  am  conquered,"  said  she,  holding  out  her  hand 
which  I  kissed.  '« Come  and  see  me  as  often  as  you  like." 

'  So  she  had  done  herself  a  violence  in  receiving  roe. 
Next  day  I  found  her  armed  with  affected  high  spirits,  and  it 
took  two  months  of  habit  before  I  saw  her  in  her  true  character. 
But  then  it  was  like  a  delicious  May,  a  springtime  of  love  that 
gave  me  ineffable  bliss ;  she  was  no  longer  afraid ;  she  was 
studying  me.  Alas  !  when  I  proposed  that  she  should  go  to 
England  to  return  ostensibly  to  me,  to  our  home,  that  she 
should  resume  her  rank  and  live  in  our  new  residence,  she  was 
seized  with  alarm. 

"  '  "Why  not  live  always  as  we  are  !  "  she  said. 

"  '  I  submitted  without  saying  a  word. 

"  «  "  Is  she  making  an  experiment?"  I  asked  myself  as  I 
left  her.  On  my  way  from  my  own  house  to  the  Rue  Saint- 
Maur  thoughts  of  love  had  swelled  in  my  heart,  and  I  had 
said  to  myself,  like  a  young  man,  "This  evening  she  will 
yield." 

"  'All  my  real  or  affected  force  was  blown  to  the  winds  by 
a  smile,  by  a  command  from  those  proud,  calm  eyes,  un- 
touched by  passion.  I  remembered  the  terrible  words  you 
once  quoted  to  me,  "Lucretia's  dagger  wrote  in  letters  of 
blood  the  watchword  of  woman's  charter — Liberty!"  and 
they  froze  me.  I  felt  imperatively  how  necessary  to  me  was 
Honorine's  consent,  and  how  impossible  it  was  to  wring  it 
from  her.  Could  she  guess  the  storms  that  distracted  me  when 
I  left  as  when  I  came  ? 

"  'At  last  I  painted  my  situation  in  a  letter  to  her,  giving 
up  the  attempt  to  speak  of  it.  Honorine  made  no  answer, 
and  she  was  so  sad  that  I  made  as  though  I  had  not  written. 
I  was  deeply  grieved  by  the  idea  that  I  could  have  distressed 
her ;  she  read  my  heart  and  forgave  me.  And  this  was  how. 
•Three  days  ago  she  received  me,  for  the  first  time,  in  her  own 


3G8  HONORINE. 

blue-and-white  room.  It  was  bright  with  flowers,  dressed, 
and  lighted  up.  Honorine  was  in  a  dress  that  made  her  be- 
witching. Her  hair  framed  that  face  that  you  know  in  its 
light  curls ;  and  in  it  were  some  sprays  of  Cape  heath  ;  she 
wore  a  white  muslin  gown,  a  white  sash  with  long  floating 
ends.  You  know  what  she  is  in  such  simplicity,  but  that  day 
she  was  a  bride,  the  Honorine  of  long  past  days.  My  joy  was 
chilled  at  once,  for  her  face  was  terribly  grave  ;  there  were 
fires  beneath  the  ice. 

"  '  "Octave,"  she  said,  "I  will  return  as  your  wife  when 
you  will.  But  understand  clearly  that  this  submission  has  its 
dangers.  I  can  be  resigned ' ' 

"  '  I  made  a  movement. 

«  <  "Yes,"  she  went  on,  "  I  understand  :  resignation  offends 
you,  and  you  want  what  I  cannot  give — Love.  Religion  and 
pity  led  me  to  renounce  my  vow  of  solitude  ;  you  are  here  !  " 
She  paused. 

"  '  "At  first,"  she  went  on,  "you  asked  no  more.  Now 
you  demand  your  wife.  Well,  here  I  give  you  Honorine, 
such  as  she  is,  without  deceiving  you  as  to  what  she  will  be. 
What  shall  I  be  ?  A  mother  ?  I  hope  it.  Believe  me,  I  hope 
it  eagerly.  Try  to  change  me ;  you  have  my  consent ;  but  if  I 
should  die,  my  dear,  do  not  curse  my  memory,  and  do  not 
set  down  to  obstinacy  what  I  should  call  the  worship  of  the 
ideal,  if  it  were  not  more  natural  to  call  the  indefinable  feeling 
which  must  kill  me  the  worship  of  the  Divine  !  The  future 
will  be  nothing  to  me ;  it  will  be  your  concern  ;  consult  your 
own  mind." 

"'And  she  sat  down  in  the  calm  attitude  you  used  to 
admire,  and  watched  me  turning  pale  with  the  pain  she  had 
inflicted.  My  blood  ran  cold.  On  seeing  the  effect  of  her 
words  she  took  both  my  hands,  and,  holding  them  in  her  own, 
she  said — 

"  '  "  Octave,  I  do  love  you,  but  not  in  the  way  you  wish  to 
be  loved.  I  love  your  soul Still,  understand  that  I  love 


HONORING. 

•HW 

you  enough  to  die  in  your  service  like  an  Eastern  slave  and 
without  a  regret.     It  will  be  my  expiation." 

'  She  did  more ;  she  knelt  before  me  on  a  cushion,  and 
in  a  spirit  of  sublime  charity  she  said 

"•'""  And  perhaps  I  shall  not  die  !  " 

"  '  For  two  months  now  I  have  been  struggling  with  my- 
self.  What  shall  I  do?  My  heart  is  too  full;  I  therefore 
seek  a  friend,  and  send  out  this  cry,  "  What  shall  I  do?" 

"'  OCTAVE.' 

"I  did  not  answer  this  letter.  Two  months  later  the 
newspapers  announced  the  return  on  board  an  English  vessel 
of  the  Comtesse  Octave,  restored  to  her  family  after  adven- 
tures by  land  and  sea,  invented  with  sufficient  probability  to 
arouse  no  contradiction. 

"  When  I  moved  to  Genoa  I  received  a  formal  announce- 
ment of  the  happy  event  of  the  birth  of  a  son  to  the  Count 
and  Countess.  I  held  that  letter  in  my  hand  for  two  hours, 
sitting  on  this  terrace — on  this  bench.  Two  months  after, 
urged  by  Octave,  by  Monsieur  de  Grandville,  and  Monsieur 
de  Serizy,  my  kind  friends,  and  broken  by  the  death  of  my 
uncle,  I  agreed  to  take  a  wife. 

"Six  months  after  the  revolution  of  July  I  received  this 
letter,  which  concludes  the  story  of  this  couple  : 

"  '  MONSIEUR  MAURICE  : — I  am  dying  -though  I  am  a 
mother — perhaps  because  I  am  a  mother.  I  have  played  my 
part  as  a  wife  well ;  I  have  deceived  my  husband.  I  have 
had  happiness  not  less  genuine  than  the  tears  shed  by  actresses 
on  the  stage.  I  am  dying  for  society,  for  the  family,  for 
marriage,  as  the  early  Christians  died  for  God  !  I  know  not 
of  what  I  am  dying,  and  I  am  honestly  trying  to  find  out, 
for  I  am  not  perverse ;  but  I  am  bent  on  explaining  my 
malady  to  you — you  who  brought  that  heavenly  physician 
your  uncle,  at  whose  word  I  surrendered.  He  was  my  di- 
24 


370  HONORINE. 

rector ;  I  nursed  him  in  his  last  illness,  and  he  showed  me 
the  way  to  heaven,  bidding  me  persevere  in  my  duty. 

"  '  And  I  have  done  my  duty. 

"  '  I  do  not  blame  those  who  forget.  I  admire  them  as 
strong  and  necessary  natures ;  but  I  have  the  malady  of 
memory  !  I  have  not  been  able  twice  to  feel  that  love  of  the 
heart  which  identifies  a  woman  with  the  man  she  loves.  To 
the  last  moment,  as  you  know,  I  cried  to  your  heart,  in  the 
confessional,  and  to  my  husband,  "  Have  mercy  !  "  But 
there  was  no  mercy.  Well,  and  I  am  dying,  dying  with 
stupendous  courage.  No  courtesan  was  ever  more  gay  than  I. 
My  poor  Octave  is  happy ;  I  let  his  love  feed  on  the  illusions 
of  my  heart.  I  throw  all  my  powers  into  this  terrible  mas- 
querade ;  the  actress  is  applauded,  feasted,  smothered  in 
flowers;  but  the  invisible  rival  comes  every  day  to  seek  its 
prey — a  fragment  of  my  life.  I  am  rent  and  I  smile.  I  smile 
on  two  children,  but  it  is  the  elder,  the  dead  one,  that  will 
triumph  !  I  told  you  so  before.  The  dead  child  calls  me, 
and  I  am  going  to  him. 

"  '  The  intimacy  of  marriage  without  love  is  a  position  in 
which  my  soul  feels  degraded  every  hour.  I  can  never  weep 
or  give  myself  up  to  dreams  but  when  I  am  alone.  The 
exigencies  of  society,  the  care  of  my  child,  and  that  of 
Octave's  happiness  never  leave  me  a  moment  to  refresh 
myself,  to  renew  my  strength,  as  I  could  in  my  solitude.  The 
incessant  need  for  watchfulness  startles  my  heart  with  constant 
alarms.  I  have  not  succeeded  in  implanting  in  my  soul  the 
sharp-eared  vigilance  that  lies  with  facility,  and  has  the  eyes 
of  a  lynx.  It  is  not  the  lip  of  one  I  love  that  drinks  my 
tears  and  kisses  my  eyelids ;  it  is  a  handkerchief  that  dries 
them ;  my  burning  eyes  are  cooled  with  water,  and  not  with 
tender  lips.  It  is  my  soul  that  acts  a  part,  and  that  perhaps 
is  why  I  am  dying !  I  lock  up  my  grief  with  so  much  care 
that  nothing  is  to  be  seen  of  it ;  it  must  eat  into  something, 
and  it  has  attacked  my  life. 


HOXOR1HE.  ^ 

.  "'I  said  to  the  doctors,  who  discovered  my  secret,  "  Make 
me  die  of  some  plausible  complaint,  or  I  shall  drag  my  hus- 
band with  me." 

'"So  it  is  quite  understood  by  M.  Desplein,  Bianchon, 
and  myself  that  I  am  dying  of  the  softening  of  some  bone 
which  science  has  fully  described.  Octave  believes  that  I 
adore  him,  do  you  understand  ?  So  I  am  afraid  lest  he  should 
follow  me.  I  now  write  to  beg  you  in  that  case  to  be  the 
little  Count's  guardian.  You  will  find  with  this  a  codicil  in 
which  I  have  expressed  my  wish  ;  but  do  not  produce  it  ex- 
cepting in  case  of  need,  for  perhaps  I  am  fatuously  vain.  My 
devotion  may  perhaps  leave  Octave  inconsolable  but  willing 
to  live.  Poor  Octave  !  I  wish  him  a  better  wife  than  I  am, 
for  he  deserves  to  be  well  loved. 

"  '  Since  my  spiritual  spy  is  married,  I  bid  him  remember 
what  the  florist  of  the  Rue  Saint-Maur  hereby  bequeaths  to 
him  as  a  lesson  :  May  your  wife  soon  be  a  mother  !  Fling 
her  into  the  vulgarest  materialism  of  household  life ;  hinder 
her  from  cherishing  in  her  heart  the  mysterious  flower  of  the 
ideal — of  that  heavenly  perfection  in  which  I  believed,  that 
enchanted  blossom  with  glorious  colors,  and  whose  perfume 
disgusts  us  with  reality.  I  am  a  Saint-Theresa  who  has  not 
been  suffered  to  live  on  ecstasy  in  the  depths  of  a  convent, 
with  the  Holy  Infant,  and  a  spotless  winged  angel  to  come 
and  go  as  she  wished. 

"  '  You  saw  me  happy  among  my  beloved  flowers.  I  did 
not  tell  you  all :  I  saw  love  budding  under  your  affected  mad- 
ness and  I  concealed  from  you  my  thoughts,  my  poetry ;  I 
did  not  admit  you  to  my  kingdom  of  beauty.  Well,  well ; 
you  will  love  my  child  for  love  of  me  if  he  should  one  day 
lose  his  poor  father.  Keep  my  secrets  as  the  grave  will  keep 
them.  Do  not  mourn  for  me ;  I  have  been  dead  this  many  a 
day,  if  Saint-Bernard  was  right  in  saying  that  where  there  is 
no  more  love  there  is  no  more  life. 

" '  HONORINK.' 


372  HONORINE. 

"And  the  Countess  died,"  said  the  consul,  putting  away, 
the  letters  and  locking  the  pocket-book. 

"Is  the  Count  still  living?"  asked  the  ambassador,  "for 
since  the  revolution  of  July  he  has  disappeared  from  the 
political  stage." 

"  Do  you  remember,  Monsieur  de  Lora,"  asked  the  consul- 
general,  turning  to  him,  "  having  seen  me  going  to  the  steam- 
boat with  ? ' ' 

"  A  white-haired  man  !  an  old  man  ?  "  said  the  painter. 

"An  old  man  of  forty-five,  going  in  search  of  health  and 
amusement  in  Southern  Italy.  That  old  man  was  my  poor 
friend,  my  patron,  passing  through  Genoa  to  take  leave  of  me 
and  place  his  will  in  my  hands.  He  appoints  me  his  son's 
guardian.  I  had  no  occasion  to  tell  him  of  Honorine's 
wishes." 

"  Does  he  suspect  himself  of  murder  ?  "  said  Mademoiselle 
des  Touches  to  the  Baron  de  L'Hostal. 

"He  suspects  the  truth,"  replied  the  consul,  "and  that  is 
what  is  killing  him.  I  remained  on  board  the  steamship  that 
was  to  take  him  to  Naples  until  it  was  out  of  the  roadstead  ; 
a  small  boat  brought  me  back.  We  sat  for  some  little  time 
taking  leave  of  each  other — for  ever,  I  fear.  God  only  knows 
how  much  we  love  the  confidant  of  our  love  when  she  who 
inspired  it  is  no  more. 

"'That  man,'  said  Octave,  'holds  a  charm  and  wears  an 
aureola.'  The  Count  went  to  the  prow  and  looked  down  on 
the  Mediterranean.  It  happened  to  be  fine,  and,  moved  no 
doubt  by  the  spectacle,  he  spoke  these  last  words :  '  Ought 
we  not,  in  the  interests  of  human  nature,  to  inquire  what  is 
the  irresistible  power  which  leads  us  to  sacrifice  an  exquisite 
creature  to  the  most  fugitive  of  all  pleasures,  and  in  spite  of 
our  reason  ?  In  my  conscience  I  heard  cries.  Honorine  was 

not  alone  in  her  anguish.     And  yet  I  would  have  it ! I 

am  consumed  by  remorse.     In  the  Rue  Payenne  I  was  dying 
of  the  joys  I  had  not ;  now  I  shall  die  in  Italy  of  the  joys  I 


HONOR1NE. 

0(O 


have  had- 


Wherein  lay  the  discord  between  two  natures 
equally  noble,  I  dare  assert?'  " 

For  some  minutes  profound  silence  reigned  on  the  terrace. 

Then  the  consul,  turning  to  the  two  women,  asked,  "  Was 
she  virtuous?" 

Mademoiselle  des  Touches  arose,  took  the  consul's  arm, 
went  a  few  steps  away,  and  said  to  him — 

"  Are  not  men  wrong,  too,  when  they  come  to  us  and  make 
a  young  girl  a  wife  while  cherishing  at  the  bottom  of  their 
heart  some  angelic  image,  and  comparing  us  to  those  unknown 
rivals,  to  perfections  often  borrowed  from  a  remembrance, 
and  always  finding  us  wanting?  " 

"  Mademoiselle,  you  would  be  right  if  marriage  were  based 
on  passion ;  and  that  was  the  mistake  of  those  two,  who  will 
soon  be  no  more.  Marriage  with  heart-deep  love  on  both 
sides  would  be  paradise." 

Mademoiselle  des  Touches  turned  from  the  consul,  and  was 
immediately  joined  by  Claude  Vignon,  who  said  in  her  ear — 

"  A  bit  of  a  coxcomb  is  M.  de  L'Hostal." 

"No,"  replied  she,  whispering  to  Claude  these  words: 
"  for  he  has  not  yet  guessed  that  Honorine  would  have  loved 
him.  Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  seeing  the  consul's  wife  ap- 
proaching, "  his  wife  was  listening  !  Unhappy  man  !  " 

Eleven  was  striking  by  all  the  clocks  and  the  guests  went 
home  on  foot  along  the  seashore. 

"  Still,  that  is  not  life,"  said  Mademoiselle  des  Touches. 
"That  woman  was  one  of  the  rarest,  and  perhaps  the  most 
extraordinary  exceptions  in  intellect — a  pearl !  Life  is  made 
up  of  various  incidents,  of  pain  and  pleasure  alternately.  The 
paradise  of  Dante,  that  sublime  expression  of  the  ideal,  that 
perpetual  blue,  is  to  be  found  only  in  the  soul ;  to  ask  it  of 
the  facts  of  life  is  a  luxury  against  which  nature  protests  every 
hour.  To  such  souls  as  those  the  six  feet  of  a  cell  and  the 
kneeling  chair  are  all  they  need." 

"You  are  right,"  said  Leon  de  Lora;    "but  good-for- 


374  HONORINE. 

nothing  as  I  may  be,  I  cannot  help  admiring  a  woman  who  is 
capable,  as  that  one  was,  of  living  by  the  side  of  a  studio, 
under  a  painter's  roof,  and  never  coming  down,  nor  seeing 
the  world,  nor  dipping  her  feet  in  the  street  mud." 

"Such  a  thing  has  been  known — for  a  few  months,"  said 
Claude  Vignon,  with  deep  irony. 

"Comtesse  Honorine  was  not  unique  of  her  kind,"  replied 
the  ambassador  to  Mademoiselle  des  Touches.  "A  man, 
nay,  and  a  politician,  a  bitter  writer,  was  the  object  of  such  a 
passion ;  and  the  pistol-shot  which  killed  him  hit  not  him 
alone;  the  woman  who  loved  lived  like  a  nun  ever  after." 

"Then  there  are  yet  some  great  souls  in  this  age!  "  said 
Camille  Maupin,  and  she  stood  for  some  minutes  pensively 
leaning  on  the  balustrade  of  the  quay. 

PARIS,  January,  1843. 


FACING  CANE. 

I  ONCE  used  to  live  in  a  little  street  which  probably  is  not 
known  to  you — the  Rue  de  Lesdiguieres.  It  is  a  turning  out 
of  the  Rue  Saint-Antoine,  beginning  just  opposite  a  fountain 
near  the  Place  de  la  Bastille,  and  ending  in  the  Rue  de  la 
Cerisaie.  Love  of  knowledge  stranded  me  in  a  garret ;  my 
nights  I  spent  in  work,  my  days  in  reading  at  the  Orleans' 
Library,  close  by.  I  lived  frugally,  I  had  accepted  the  con- 
ditions of  the  monastic  life,  necessary  conditions  for  every 
worker,  scarcely  permitting  myself  a  walk  along  the  Boulevard 
Bourdon  when  the  weather  was  fine.  One  passion  only  had 
power  to  draw  me  from  my  studies ;  and  yet,  what  was  that 
passion  but  a  study  of  another  kind  ?  I  used  to  watch  the 
manners  and  customs  of  the  faubourg,  its  inhabitants,  and 
their  characteristics.  As  I  dressed  no  better  than  a  working- 
man  and  cared  nothing  for  appearances,  I  did  not  put  them 
on  their  guard  ;  I  could  join  a  group  and  look  on  while  they 
drove  bargains  or  wrangled  among  themselves  on  their  way 
home  from  work.  Even  then  observation  had  come  to  be  an 
instinct  with  me ;  a  faculty  of  penetrating  to  the  soul  without 
neglecting  the  body  ;  or,  rather,  a  power  of  grasping  external 
details  so  thoroughly  that  they  never  detained  me  for  a  mo- 
ment and  at  once  I  passed  beyond  and  through  them.  I 
could  enter  into  the  life  of  the  human  creatures  whom  I 
watched,  just  as  the  dervish  in  the  "Arabian  Nights"  could 
pass  into  any  soul  or  body  after  pronouncing  a  certain 
formula. 

If  I  met  a  workingman  and  his  wife  in  the  streets  between 
eleven  o'clock  and  midnight  on  their  way  home  from  the 
Ambigu  Comique,  I  used  to  amuse  myself  by  following  them 
from  the  Boulevard  du  Pont  aux  Choux  to  the  Boulevard  Beau- 

(375) 


376  FACING   CANE. 

marchais.  The  good  folk  would  begin  by  talking  about  the 
play;  then  from  one  thing  to  another  they  would  come  to 
their  own  affairs,  and  the  mother  would  walk  on  and  on, 
heedless  of  complaint  or  question  from  the  little  one  that 
dragged  at  her  hand,  while  she  and  her  husband  reckoned  up 
the  wages  to  be  paid  on  the  morrow,  and  spent  the  money  in 
a  score  of  different  ways.  Then  came  domestic  details, 
lamentations  over  the  excessive  dearness  of  potatoes,  or  the 
length  of  the  winter  and  the  high  price  of  block  fuel,  together 
with  forcible  representations  of  amounts  owing  to  the  baker, 
ending  in  an  acrimonious  dispute,  in  the  course  of  which  such 
couples  reveal  their  characters  in  picturesque  language.  As  I 
listened,  I  could  make  their  lives  mine,  I  felt  their  rags  on 
my  back,  I  walked  with  their  gaping  shoes  on  my  feet ;  their 
cravings,  their  needs,  had  all  passed  into  my  soul,  or  my  soul 
had  passed  into  theirs.  It  was  the  dream  of  a  waking  man. 
I  waxed  hot  with  them  over  the  foreman's  tyranny,  or  the 
bad  customers  that  made  them  call  again  and  again  for  pay- 
ment. 

To  come  out  of  my  own  way  of  life,  to  be  another  than 
myself  through  a  kind  of  intoxication  of  the  intellectual  facul- 
ties, and  to  play  this  game  at  will,  such  was  my  recreation. 
Whence  comes  the  gift  ?  Is  it  a  kind  of  second-sight  ?  Is  it 
one  of  those  powers  which,  when  abused,  ends  in  madness? 
I  have  never  tried  to  discover  its  source  ;  I  possess  it,  I  use  it, 
that  is  all.  But  this  it  behooves  you  to  know,  that  in  those 
days  I  began  to  resolve  the  heterogeneous  mass  known  as  the 
People  into  its  elements,  and  to  evaluate  its  good  and  bad 
qualities.  Even  then  I  realized  the  possibilities  of  my  suburb, 
that  hot-bed  of  revolution  in  which  heroes,  inventors,  and 
practical  men  of  science,  rogues  and  scoundrels,  virtues  and 
vices,  were  all  packed  together  by  poverty,  stifled  by  necessity, 
drowned  in  drink,  and  consumed  by  ardent  spirits. 

You  would  not  imagine  how  many  adventures,  how  many 
tragedies,  lie  buried  away  out  of  sight  in  that  dolorous  city ; 


FACING   CANE.  377 

how  much  horror  and  beauty  lurks  there.  No  imagination 
can  reach  the  truth ;  no  one  can  go  down  into  that  city  to 
make  discoveries ;  for  one  must  needs  descend  too  low  into  its 
depths  to  see  the  wonderful  scenes  of  tragedy  or  comedy 
enacted  there,  the  masterpieces  brought  forth  by  chance. 

I  do  not  know  how  it  is  that  I  have  kept  the  following  story 
so  long  untold.  It  is  one  of  the  curious  things  that  stop  in 
the  bag  from  which  memory  draws  out  stories  at  haphazard, 
like  numbers  in  a  lottery.  There  are  plenty  of  tales  just  as 
strange  and  just  as  well  hidden  still  left ;  but  some  day,  you 
may  be  sure,  their  turn  will  come : 

One  day  my  charwoman,  a  workingman's  wife,  came  to  beg 
me  to  honor  her  sister's  wedding  with  my  presence.  If  you 
are  to  realize  what  this  wedding  was  like,  you  must  know  that 
I  paid  my  charwoman,  poor  creature,  four  francs  a  month ; 
for  which  sum  she  came  every  morning  to  make  my  bed,  clean 
my  shoes,  brush  my  clothes,  sweep  the  room,  and  make  ready 
my  breakfast,  before  going  to  her  day's  work  of  turning  the 
handle  of  a  machine,  at  which  hard  drudgery  she  earned  ten 
sous.  Her  husband,  a  cabinet  maker,  made  four  francs  a 
day  at  his  trade  ;  but  as  they  had  three  children,  it  was  all  that 
they  could  do  to  gain  an  honest  living.  Yet  I  have  never  met 
with  more  sterling  honesty  than  in  this  man  and  his  wife.  For 
five  years  after  I  left  the  quarter,  Mere  Vaillant  used  to  come 
on  my  birthday  with  a  bunch  of  flowers  and  some  oranges  for 
me — she  that  had  never  one  franc  to  put  by !  Want  had 
drawn  us  together.  I  never  could  give  her  more  than  a  ten- 
franc  piece,  and  often  I  had  to  borrow  the  money  for  the 
occasion.  This  will  perhaps  explain  my  promise  to  go  to  the 
wedding  ;  I  hoped  to  efface  myself  in  these  poor  people's 
merry-making. 

The  banquet  and  the  ball  were  given  on  the  first  floor  above 
a  wineshop  in  the  Rue  de  Charenton.  It  was  a  large  room, 
lighted  by  oil  lamps  with  tin  reflectors,  A  row  of  wooden 


378  FACING   CANE. 

benches  ran  round  the  walls,  which  were  black  with  grime  to 
the  height  of  the  tables.  Here  some  eighty  persons,  all  in 
their  Sunday  best,  tricked  out  with  ribbons  and  bunches  of 
flowers,  all  of  them  on  pleasure  bent,  were  dancing  away  with 
heated  visages  as  if  the  world  were  about  to  come  to  an  end. 
Bride  and  bridegroom  exchanged  salutes  to  the  general  satis- 
faction, amid  a  chorus  of  facetious  "Oh,  ohs !  "  and  "Ah, 
ahs  !  "  less  really  indecent  than  the  furtive  glances  of  young 
girls  that  have  been  well  brought  up.  There  was  something 
indescribably  infectious  about  the  rough,  homely  enjoyment 
in  all  countenances. 

But  neither  the  faces,  nor  the  wedding,  nor  the  wedding- 
guests  have  anything  to  do  with  my  story.  Simply  bear  them 
in  mind  as  the  odd  setting  to  it.  Try  to  realize  the  scene, 
the  shabby,  red-painted  wineshop,  the  smell  of  wine,  the  yells 
of  merriment ;  try  to  feel  that  you  are  really  in  the  faubourg, 
among  old  people,  workingmen  and  poor  women  giving 
themselves  up  to  a  night's  enjoyment. 

The  band  consisted  of  a  fiddle,  a  clarionet,  and  a  flageolet 
from  the  Blind  Asylum.  The  three  were  paid  seven  francs  in 
a  lump  sum  for  the  night.  For  the  money,  they  gave  us,  not 
Beethoven  certainly,  nor  yet  Rossini ;  they  played  as  they 
had  the  will  and  the  skill ;  and  every  one  in  the  room  (with 
charming  delicacy  of  feeling)  refrained  from  finding  fault. 
The  music  made  such  a  brutal  assault  on  the  drum  of  my  ear, 
that  after  a  first  glance  round  the  room  my  eyes  fell  at  once 
upon  the  blind  trio,  and  the  sight  of  their  uniform  inclined 
me  from  the  first  to  indulgence.  As  the  artists  stood  in  a 
window  recess,  it  was  difficult  to  distinguish  their  faces  except 
at  close  quarters,  and  I  kept  away  at  first  ;  but  when  I  came 
nearer  (I  hardly  know  why)  I  thought  of  nothing  else  ;  the 
wedding-party  and  the  music  ceased  to  exist,  my  curiosity  was 
aroused  to  the  highest  pitch,  for  my  soul  passed  into  the  body 
of  the  clarionet  player. 

The  fiddle  and  the  flageolet  were  neither  of  them  interest- 


FACING  CANE.  3711 

ing ;  their  faces  were  of  the  ordinary  type  among  the  blind- 
earnest,  attentive,  and  grave.  Not  so  the  clarionet  player ; 
any  artist  or  philosopher  must  have  come  to  a  stop  at  the  sight 
of  him. 

Picture  to  yourself  a  plaster-mask  of  Dante  in  the  red  lamp- 
light, with  a  forest  of  silver-white  hair  above  the  brows. 
Blindness  intensified  the  expression  of  bitterness  and  sorrow 
in  that  grand  face  of  his  ;  the  dead  eyes  were  lighted  up,  as  it 
were,  by  a  thought  within  that  broke  forth  like  a  burning 
flame,  lit  by  one  sole  insatiable  desire,  written  large  in  vigor- 
ous characters  upon  an  arching  brow  scored  across  with  as  many 
lines  as  an  old  stone-wall. 

The  old  man  was  playing  at  random,  without  the  slightest 
regard  for  time  or  tune.  His  fingers  traveled  mechanically 
over  the  worn  keys  of  his  instrument ;  he  did  not  trouble 
himself  over  a  false  note  now  and  again  (a  canard,  in  the  lan- 
guage of  the  orchestra),  neither  did  the  dancers,  nor,  for  that 
matter,  did  my  old  Italian's  acolytes  ;  for  I  had  made  up  my 
mind  that  he  must  be  an  Italian,  and  an  Italian  he  was. 
There  was  something  great,  something  too  of  the  despot  about 
this  old  Homer  bearing  within  him  an  "  Odyssey"  doomed 
to  oblivion.  The  greatness  was  so  real  that  it  triumphed 
over  his  abject  position  ;  the  despotism  so  much  a  part  of 
him,  that  it  rose  above  his  poverty. 

There  are  violent  passions  which  drive  a  man  to  good  or 
evil,  making  of  him  a  hero  or  a  convict ;  of  these  there  was 
not  one   that  had  failed  to  leave  its  traces  on  the  grandly 
hewn,  lividly  Italian   face.     You   trembled   lest  a  flash   of 
thought  should  suddenly  light  up  the  deep  sightless  hollows 
under  the  grizzled  brows,  as  you  might  fear  to  see  brigands 
with  torches  and  poniards  in  the  mouth  of  a  cavern.     Yoi 
felt  that  there  was  a  lion  in  that  cage  of  flesh,  a  lion  spei 
with  useless  raging  against  iron  bars.     The  fires  of  despai 
had  burned  themselves  out  into  ashes,  the  lava  had 
but  the  tracks  of  the  flames,  the  wreckage,  and  a  little  smoke 


380  FACING    CANE. 

remained  to  bear  witness  to  the  violence  of  the  eruption,  the 
ravages  of  the  fire.  These  images  crowded  up  at  the  sight  of 
the  clarionet  player,  till  the  thoughts  now  grown  cold  in  his 
face  burned  hot  within  my  soul. 

The  fiddle  and  the  flageolet  took  a  deep  interest  in  bottles 
and  glasses ;  at  the  end  of  a  country  dance  they  hung  their 
instruments  from  a  button  on  their  reddish-colored  coats,  and 
stretched  out  their  hands  to  a  little  table  set  in  the  window 
recess  to  hold  their  liquor  supply.  Each  time  they  did  so 
they  held  out  a  full  glass  to  the  Italian,  who  could  not  reach 
it  for  himself  because  he  sat  in  front  of  the  table,  and  each 
time  the  Italian  thanked  them  with  a  friendly  nod.  All  their 
movements  were  made  with  the  precision  which  always  amazes 
one  so  much  at  the  Blind  Asylum.  You  could  almost  think 
that  they  can  see.  I  came  nearer  to  listen  ;  but  when  I  stood 
beside  them,  they  evidently  guessed  I  was  not  a  workingman 
and  kept  themselves  to  themselves. 

"What  part  of  the  world  do  you  come  from,  you  that  are 
playing  the  clarionet?  " 

"From  Venice,"  he  said,  with  a  trace  of  Italian  accent. 

"  Have  you  always  been  blind,  or  did  it  come  on  after- 
ward  ?" 

"Afterward,"  he  answered  quickly.  "A  cursed  gutta 
serena." 

"  Venice  is  a  fine  city ;  I  have  always  had  a  fancy  to  go 
there." 

The  old  man's  face  lighted  up,  the  wrinkles  began  to  work, 
he  was  violently  excited. 

"If  I  went  with  you,  you  would  not  lose  your  time,"  he 
said. 

"  Don't  talk  about  Venice  to  our  doge,"  put  in  the  fiddle, 
"or  you  will  start  him  off,  and  he  has  stowed  away  a  couple 
of  bottles  as  it  is — has  the  prince  !  " 

"Come,  strike  up,  Daddy  Canard  !  "  added  the  flageolet, 
and  the  three  began  to  play.  But  while  they  executed  the  four 


FACING  CANE.  Ml 

figures  of  a  square  dance,  the  Venetian  was  scenting  my 
thoughts  j  he  guessed  the  great  interest  I  felt  in  him.  The 
dreary  dispirited  look  died  out  of  his  face,  some  mysterious 
hope  brightened  his  features  and  slid  like  a  blue  flame  over 
his  wrinkles.  He  smiled  and  wiped  his  brow,  that  fearless, 
terrible  brow  of  his,  and  at  length  grew  gay  like  a  man 
mounted  on  his  hobby. 

"How  old  are  you?"  I  asked. 

"Eighty-two." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  blind?" 

"  For  very  nearly  fifty  years,"  he  said,  and  there  was  that 
in  his  tone  which  told  me  that  his  regret  was  for  something 
more  than  his  lost  sight,  for  great  power  of  which  he  had 
been  robbed. 

"  Then  why  do  they  call  you  '  the  doge? '  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  it  is  a  joke.  I  am  a  Venetian  noble  and  I  might 
have  been  a  doge  like  any  one  else." 

•* '  What  is  your  name  ?  ' ' 

"  Here,  in  Paris,  I  am  Pere  Canet,"  he  said.  "  It  was  the 
only  way  of  spelling  my  name  on  the  register.  But  in  Italy  I 
am  Marco  Facino  Cane,  Prince  of  Varese." 

"  What,  are  you  descended  from  the  great  condottierc  Facino 
Cane,  whose  lands  won  by  the  sword  were  taken  by  the  Dukes 
of  Milan?" 

"  Of  a  truth,"  returned  he.  "His  son's  life  was  not  safe 
under  the  Visconti ;  he  fled  to  Venice,  and  his  name  was 
inscribed  on  the  Golden  Book.  And  now  neither  Cane  nor 
Golden  Book  is  in  existence."  His  gesture  startled  me;  it 
told  of  patriotism  extinguished  and  weariness  of  life. 

"  But  if  you  were  once  a  Venetian  senator,  you  must  have 
been  a  wealthy  man.  How  did  you  lose  your  fortune  ?  " 

"  In  evil  days." 

He  waved  away  the  glass  of  wine  handed  to  him  by  the 
flageolet,  and  bowed  his  head.  He  had  no  heart  to  drink. 
These  details  were  not  calculated  to  extinguish  my  curiosity. 


382  FACING  CANE. 

As  the  three  ground  out  the  music  of  the  square  dance  I 
gazed  at  the  old  Venetian  noble,  thinking  thoughts  that  set  a 
young  man's  mind  afire  at  the  age  of  twenty.  I  saw  Venice 
and  the  Adriatic  ;  I  saw  her  ruin  in  the  ruin  of  the  face  before 
me.  I  walked  to  and  fro  in  that  city,  so  beloved  of  her  citi- 
zens; I  went  from  the  Rialto  Bridge,  along  the  Grand  Canal, 
and  from  the  Riva  degli  Schiavoni  to  the  Lido,  returning  to 
St.  Mark's,  that  cathedral  so  unlike  all  others  in  its  sublimity. 
I  looked  up  at  the  windows  of  the  Casa  Doro,  each  with  its 
different  sculptured  ornaments;  I  saw  old  palaces  rich  in 
marbles,  saw  all  the  wonders  which  a  student  beholds  with 
the  more  sympathetic  eyes  because  visible  things  take  their 
color  of  his  fancy,  and  the  sight  of  realities  cannot  rob  him 
of  the  glory  of  his  dreams.  Then  I  traced  back  a  course  of 
life  for  this  latest  scion  of  a  race  of  condottieri,  tracking 
down  his  misfortunes,  looking  for  the  reasons  of  the  deep 
moral  and  physical  degradation  out  of  which  the  lately  re- 
vived sparks  of  greatness  and  nobility  shone  so  much  the 
more  brightly.  My  ideas,  no  doubt,  were  passing  through 
his  mind,  for  all  processes  of  thought-communications  are  far 
more  swift,  I  think,  in  blind  people,  because  their  blindness 
compels  them  to  concentrate  their  attention.  I  had  not  long 
to  wait  for  proof  that  we  were  in  sympathy  in  this  way. 
Facino  Cane  left  off  playing  and  came  up  to  me.  "  Let  us 
go  out!  "  he  said;  his  tones  thrilled  through  me  like  an 
electric  shock.  I  gave  him  my  arm,  and  we  went. 

Outside  on  the  street  he  said,  "  Will  you  take  me  back  to 
Venice  ?  will  you  be  my  guide  ?  Will  you  put  faith  in  me  ? 
You  shall  be  richer  than  ten  of  the  richest  houses  in  Amster- 
dam or  London,  richer  than  Rothschild  ;  in  short,  you  shall 
have  the  fabulous  wealth  of  the  'Arabian  Nights.'  " 

The  man  was  mad,  I  thought ;  but  in  his  voice  there  was  a 
potent  something  which  I  obeyed.  I  allowed  him  to  lead, 
and  he  went  in  the  direction  of  the  Fosses  de  la  Bastille,  as 
if  he  could  see ;  walking  till  he  reached  a  lonely  spot  down 


FACINO  CANE.  3^ 

by  the  river,  just  where  the  bridge  has  since  been  built  at  the 
junction  of  the  Canal  Saint-Martin  and  the  Seine.  Here  he 
sat  down  on  a  stone,  and  I,  sitting  opposite  to  him,  saw  the 
old  man's  hair  gleaming  like  threads  of  silver  in  the  moon, 
light.  The  stillness  was  scarcely  troubled  by  tne  sound  of  ihe 
far-off  thunder  of  traffic  along  the  boulevards ;  the  clear  night 
air  and  everything  about  us  combined  to  make  a  strangely 
unreal  scene. 

"  You  talk  of  millions  to  a  young  man,"  I  began,  "and 
do  you  think  that  he  will  shrink  from  enduring  any  number 
of  hardships  to  gain  them  ?  Are  you  not  laughing  at  me?" 

"  May  I  die  unshriven,"  he  cried  vehemently,  "  if  all  that 
I  am  about  to  tell  you  is  not  true.  I  was  one-and-twenty 
years  old,  like  you  at  this  moment.  I  was  rich,  I  was  hand- 
some, and  a  noble  by  birth.  I  began  with  the  first  madness 
of  all — with  love.  I  loved  as  no  one  can  love  nowadays. 
I  have  hidden  myself  in  a  chest,  at  the  risk  of  a  dagger 
thrust,  for  nothing  more  than  the  promise  of  a  kiss.  To 
die  for  her — it  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  whole  life  in  itself. 
In  1 760  I  fell  in  love  with  a  lady  of  the  Vendramin  family ; 
she  was  eighteen  years  old,  and  married  to  a  Sagredo,  one  of 
the  richest  senators,  a  man  of  thirty,  madly  in  love  with  his 
wife.  My  mistress  and  I  were  guiltless  as  cherubs  when  the 
sposo  caught  us  together  talking  of  love.  He  was  armed,  I 
was  not,  but  he  missed  me ;  I  sprang  upon  him  and  killed 
him  with  my  two  hands,  wringing  his  neck  as  if  he  had  been 
a  chicken.  I  wanted  Bianca  to  fly  with  me  ;  but  she  would 
not.  That  is  the  way  with  women  !  So  I  went  alone.  I 
was  condemned  to  death,  and  my  property  was  confiscated 
and  made  over  to  my  next-of-kin  ;  but  I  had  carried  off  my 
diamonds,  five  of  Titian's  pictures  taken  down  from  their 
frames  and  rolled  up,  and  all  my  gold. 

"  I  went  to  Milan,  no  one  molested  me,  my  affair  in  no- 
wise interested  the  state.  One  small  observation  before  I  go 
further,"  he  continued,  after  a  pause,  "whether  it  is  true  or 


384  fACINO   CANE. 

not  that  the  mother's  fancies  at  the  time  of  conception  or  in 
the  months  before  birth  can  influence  her  child,  this  much  is 
certain,  my  mother  during  her  pregnancy  had  a  passion  for 
gold,  and  I  am  the  victim  of  a  monomania,  of  a  craving  for 
gold  which  must  be  gratified.  Gold  is  so  much  a  necessity 
of  life  for  me  that  I  have  never  been  without  it ;  I  must  have 
gold  to  toy  with  and  finger.  As  a  young  man  I  always  wore 
jewelry,  and  carried  two  or  three  hundred  ducats  about  with 
me  wherever  I  went." 

He  drew  a  couple  of  gold  coins  from  his  pocket  and  showed 
them  to  me  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  can  tell  by  instinct  when  gold  is  near.  Blind  as  I  am, 
I  stop  before  the  jewelers'  store  windows.  That  passion  was 
the  ruin  of  me ;  I  took  to  gambling  to  play  with  gold.  I 
was  not  a  cheat — I  was  cheated  ;  I  ruined  myself.  I  lost  all 
my  fortune.  Then  the  longing  to  see  Bianca  once  more  pos- 
sessed me  like  a  frenzy.  I  stole  back  to  Venice  and  found 
her  again.  For  six  months  I  was  happy ;  she  hid  me  in  her 
house  and  fed  me.  I  thought  thus  deliciously  to  finish  my 
days.  But  the  Provveditore  courted  her,  and  guessed  that  he 
had  a  rival ;  we  in  Italy  can  feel  that.  He  played  the  spy 
upon  us,  and  surprised  us  together  in  bed,  base  wretch  !  You 
may  judge  what  a  fight  for  life  it  was ;  I  did  not  kill  him  out- 
right, but  I  wounded  him  dangerously. 

"  That  adventure  broke  my  luck.  I  have  never  found 
another  Bianca  ;  I  have  known  great  pleasures ;  but  among 
the  most  celebrated  women  of  the  court  of  Louis  XV.  I  never 
found  my  beloved  Venetian's  charm,  her  love,  her  great 
qualities. 

"  The  Provveditore  called  his  servants,  the  palace  was  sur- 
rounded and  entered.  I  fought  for  my  life  that  I  might  die 
beneath  Bianca's  eyes;  Bianca  helped  me  to  kill  the  Prov- 
veditore. Once  before  she  had  refused  flight  with  me ;  but 
after  six  months  of  happiness  she  wished  only  to  die  with  me, 
and  received  several  thrusts.  I  was  entangled  in  a  great 


FACING  CANE. 

cloak  that  they  flung  over  me,  carried  down  to  a  gondola  and 
hurried  to  the  Pozzi  dungeons.  I  was  twenty-two  years  old ; 
I  gripped  the  hilt  of  my  broken  sword  so  hard  that  they 
could  only  have  taken  it  from  me  by  cutting  off  my  hand  at 
the  wrist.  A  curious  chance,  or  rather  the  instinct  of  self- 
preservation,  led  me  to  hide  the  fragment  of  the  blade  in  a 
corner  of  my  cell,  as  if  it  might  still  be  of  use.  They  tended 
me ;  none  of  my  wounds  were  serious.  At  two-and-twenty 
one  can  recover  from  anything.  I  was  to  lose  my  head  on 
the  scaffold.  I  shammed  illness  to  gain  time.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  the  canal  lay  just  outside  my  cell.  I  thought  to 
make  my  escape  by  boring  a  hole  through  the  wall  and  swim- 
ming for  my  life.  I  based  my  hopes  on  the  following  rea- 
sons: 

"  Every  time  that  the  gaoler  came  with  my  food  there  was 
light  enough  to  read  directions  written  on  the  walls — '  Side 
of  the  Palace,'  'Side  of  the  Canal,'  'Side  of  the  Vaults.' 
At  last  I  saw  a  design  in  this,  but  I  did  not  trouble  myself 
much  about  the  meaning  of  it ;  the  actual  incomplete  condi- 
tion of  the  Ducal  Palace  accounted  for  it.  The  longing  to 
regain  my  freedom  gave  me  something  like  genius.  Groping 
about  with  my  fingers,  I  spelled  out  an  Arabic  inscription  on 
the  wall.  The  author  of  the  work  informed  those  to  come 
after  him  that  he  had  loosened  two  stones  in  the  lowest  course 
of  masonry  and  hollowed  out  eleven  feet  beyond  under- 
ground. As  he  went  on  with  his  excavations,  it  became  neces- 
sary to  spread  the  fragments  of  stone  and  mortar  over  the 
floor  of  his  cell.  But  even  if  gaolers  and  inquisitors  had  not 
felt  sure  that  the  structure  of  the  buildings  was  such  that  no 
watch  was  needed  below,  the  level  of  the  Pozzi  dungeons 
being  several  steps  below  the  threshold,  it  was  possible  grad- 
ually to  raise  the  earthen  floor  without  exciting  the  warder's 
suspicions. 

"The  tremendous  labor  had  profited  nothing — nothing  at 
least  to  him  that  began  it.  The  very  fact  that  it  was  left 


386  FACING    CANE. 

unfinished  told  of  the  unknown  worker's  death.  Unless  his 
devoted  toil  was  to  be  wasted  for  ever,  his  successor  must 
have  some  knowledge  of  Arabic,  but  I  had  studied  Oriental 
languages  at  the  Armenian  convent.  A  few  words  written 
on  the  back  of  the  stone  recorded  the  unhappy  man's  fate ; 
he  had  fallen  a  victim  to  his  great  possessions  ;  Venice  had 
coveted  his  wealth  and  seized  upon  it.  A  whole  month  went 
by  before  I  obtained  any  result  ;  but  whenever  I  felt  my 
strength  failing  as  I  worked,  I  heard  the  chink  of  gold,  I  saw 
gold  spread  before  me,  I  was  dazzled  by  diamonds.  Ah  !  wait. 

"One  night  my  blunted  steel  struck  on  wood.  I  whetted 
the  fragment  of  my  blade  and  cut  a  hole ;  I  crept  on  my  belly 
like  a  serpent ;  I  worked  naked  and  mole-fashion,  my  hands 
in  front  of  me,  using  the  stone  itself  to  gain  a  purchase.  I 
was  to  appear  before  my  judges  in  two  days'  time ;  I  made  a 
final  effort,  and  that  night  I  bored  through  the  wood  and  felt 
that  there  was  space  beyond. 

"Judge  of  my  surprise  when  I  applied  my  eye  to  the  hole. 
I  was  in  the  ceiling  of  a  vault,  heaps  of  gold  were  dimly 
visible  in  the  faint  light.  The  doge  himself  and  one  of  the 
Ten  stood  below ;  I  could  hear  their  voices  and  sufficient  of 
their  talk  to  know  that  this  was  the  secret  treasury  of  the 
republic,  full  of  the  gifts  of  doges  and  reserves  of  booty  called 
the  Tithe  of  Venice  from  the  spoils  of  military  expeditions. 
I  was  saved  ! 

"  When  the  gaoler  came  I  proposed  that  he  should  help  me 
to  escape  and  fly  with  me,  and  that  we  should  take  with  us  as 
much  as  we  could  carry.  There  was  no  reason  for  hesitation ; 
he  agreed.  Vessels  were  about  to  sail  for  the  Levant.  All 
possible  precautions  were  taken.  Bianca  furthered  the  schemes 
which  I  suggested  to  my  accomplice.  It  was  arranged  that 
Bianca  should  only  rejoin  us  in  Smyrna  for  fear  of  exciting 
suspicion.  In  a  single  night  the  hole  was  enlarged  and  we 
dropped  down  into  the  secret  treasury  of  Venice. 

"What  a  night  that  was!     Four  great  casks  full  of  gold 


FACING  CANE.  3g; 

stood  there.  In  the  outer  room  silver  pieces  were  piled  in 
heaps,  leaving  a  gangway  between  by  which  to  cross  the 
chamber.  Banks  of  silver  coins  surrounded  the  walls  to  the 
height  of  five  feet. 

"  I  thought  the  gaoler  would  go  mad.  He  sang  and 
laughed  and  danced  and  capered  among  the  gold,  till  I 
threatened  to  strangle  him  if  he  made  a  sound  or  wasted  time. 
In  his  joy  he  did  not  notice  at  first  the  table  where  the  dia- 
monds lay.  I  flung  myself  upon  these,  and  deftly  filled  the 
pockets  of  my  sailor's  jacket  and  trousers  with  the  stones. 
Ah  !  heaven,  I  did  not  take  the  third  of  them.  Gold  ingots 
lay  underneath  the  table.  I  persuaded  my  companion  to  fill 
as  many  bags  as  we  could  carry  with  the  gold,  and  made  him 
understand  that  this  was  our  only  chance  of  escaping  detec- 
tion abroad. 

"  '  Pearls,  rubies,  and  diamonds  might  be  recognized,'  I 
told  him. 

"  Covetous  though  we  were,  we  could  not  possibly  take 
more  than  two  thousand  livres  weight  of  gold,  which  meant 
six  journeys  across  the  prison  to  the  gondola.  The  sentinel 
at  the  water-gate  was  bribed  with  a  bag  containing  ten  livres 
weight  of  gold  ;  and  as  for  the  two  gondoliers,  they  believed 
they  were  serving  the  republic.  At  daybreak  we  set  out. 

"  Once  upon  the  open  sea,  when  I  thought  of  that  night, 
when  I  recollected  all  that  I  had  felt,  when  the  vision  of  that 
great  hoard  arose  before  my  eyes,  and  I  computed  that  I  had 
left  behind  thirty  millions  in  silver,  twenty  in  gold,  and 
many  more  in  diamonds,  pearls,  and  rubies— then  a  sort  of 
madness  began  to  work  in  me.  I  had  the  gold  fever. 

"  We  landed  at  Smyrna  and  took  ship  at  once  for  France. 
As  we  went  on  board  the  French  vessel,  heaven  favored  me 
by  ridding  me  of  my  accomplice.  I  did  not  think  at  the 
time  of  all  the  possible  consequences  of  this  mishap  and  re- 
joiced not  a  little.  We  were  so  completely  unnerved  by  all 
that  had  happened  that  we  were  stupid,  we  said  not  a  word 


388  FACING   CANE. 

to  each  other,  we  waited  until  it  should  be  safe  to  enjoy  our- 
selves at  our  ease.  It  was  not  wonderful  that  the  rogue's 
head  was  dizzy.  You  shall  see  how  heavily  God  has  punished 
me. 

"  I  never  knew  a  quiet  moment  until  I  had  sold  two-thirds 
of  my  diamonds  in  London  or  Amsterdam,  and  held  the  value 
of  my  gold  dust  in  a  negotiable  shape.  For  five  years  I  hid 
myself  in  Madrid,  then  in  1770  I  came  to  Paris  with  a  Span- 
ish name,  and  led  as  brilliant  a  life  as  may  be.  Then,  in  the 
midst  of  my  pleasures,  as  I  enjoyed  a  fortune  of  six  millions, 
I  was  smitten  with  blindness.  I  do  not  doubt  but  that  my 
infirmity  was  brought  on  by  my  sojourn  in  the  cell  and  my 
work  in  the  stone,  if,  indeed,  my  peculiar  faculty  for  '  seeing ' 
gold  was  not  an  abuse  of  the  power  of  sight  which  predes- 
tined me  to  lose  it.  Bianca  was  dead. 

"  At  this  time  I  had  fallen  in  love  with  a  woman  to  whom 
I  thought  to  link  my  fate.  I  had  told  her  the  secret  of  my 
name  ;  she  belonged  to  a  powerful  family ;  she  was  a  friend 
of  Madame  du  Barry ;  I  hoped  everything  from  the  favor 
shown  me  by  Louis  XV.  ;  I  trusted  in  her.  Acting  on  her 
advice  I  went  to  England  to  consult  a  famous  oculist,  and 
after  a  stay  of  several  months  in  London  she  deserted  me  in 
Hyde  Park.  She  had  stripped  me  of  all  that  I  had,  and  left 
me  without  resource.  Nor  could  I  make  complaint,  for  to 
disclose  my  name  was  to  lay  myself  open  to  the  vengeance  of 
my  native  city ;  I  could  appeal  to  no  one  for  aid,  I  feared 
Venice.  The  woman  put  spies  about  me  to  exploit  my  in- 
firmity. I  spare  you  a  tale  of  adventures  worthy  of  Gil  Bias. 
Your  revolution  followed.  For  two  whole  years  that  creature 
kept  me  at  the  Bicetre  as  a  lunatic,  then  she  gained  admit- 
tance for  me  at  the  Blind  Asylum  ;  there  was  no  help  for  it, 
I  went.  I  could  not  kill  her ;  I  could  not  see  ;  and  I  was  so 
poor  that  I  could  not  pay  another  arm. 

"If  only  I  had  taken  counsel  with  my  gaoler,  Benedetto 
Carpi,  before  I  lost  him,  I  might  have  known  the  exact  post- 


FACING    CAXE.  ,M 

tion  of  my  cell,  I  might  have  found  my  way  back  to  the  treas- 
ury and  returned  to  Venice  when  Napoleon  crushed  the  re- 
public  

"  Still,  blind  as  I  am,  let  us  go  back  to  Venice !  I  shall 
find  the  door  of  my  prison,  I  shall  see  the  gold  through  the 
prison  walls,  I  shall  hear  it  where  it  lies  under  the  water ;  for 
the  events  which  brought  about  the  fall  of  Venice  befell  in 
such  a  way  that  the  secret  of  the  hoard  must  have  perished 
with  Bianca's  brother,  Vendramin,  a  doge  to  whom  I  looked 
to  make  my  peace  with  the  Ten.  I  sent  memorials  to  the 
First  Consul ;  I  proposed  an  agreement  with  the  Emperor  of 
Austria ;  every  one  sent  me  about  my  business  for  a  lunatic. 
Come  !  we  will  go  to  Venice ;  let  us  set  out  as  beggars,  we 
shall  come  back  millionaires.  We  will  buy  back  my  estates, 
and  you  shall  be  my  heir  !  You  shall  be  Prince  of  Varese  !  " 

My  head  was  swimming.  For  me  his  confidences  reached 
the  proportions  of  tragedy ;  at  the  sight  of  that  white  head 
of  his  and  beyond  it  the  black  water  in  the  trenches  of  the 
bastile  lying  still  as  a  canal  in  Venice,  I  had  no  words  to 
answer  him.  Facino  Cane  thought,  no  doubt,  that  I  judged 
him,  as  the  rest  had  done,  with  a  disdainful  pity;  his  gesture 
expressed  the  whole  philosophy  of  despair. 

Perhaps  his  story  had  taken  him  back  to  happy  days  and  to 
Venice.  He  caught  up  his  clarionet  and  made  plaintive 
music,  playing  a  Venetian  boat-song  with  something  of  his 
lost  skill,  the  skill  of  the  young  patrician  lover.  It  was  a  sort 
of  Super  flumina  Babylonis.  Tears  filled  my  eyes.  Any  be- 
lated persons  walking  along  the  Boulevard  Bourdon  must  have 
stood  still  to  listen  to  an  exile's  last  prayer,  a  last  cry  of  regret 
for  a  lost  name,  mingled  with  memories  of  Bianca.  But  gold 
soon  gained  the  upper  hand,  the  fatal  passion  quenched  the 
light  of  youth. 

"  I  see  it  always,"  he  said,  "  dreaming  or  waking,  I  see  it; 
and  as  I  pace  to  and  fro,  I  pace  in  the  treasury,  and  the  dia- 
monds sparkle.  I  am  not  so  blind  as  you  think ;  gold  and 


390  FACING    CANE. 

diamonds  light  up  my  night,  the  night  of  the  last  Facino  Cane, 
for  my  title  passes  to  the  Memmi.  My  God  !  the  murderer's 
punishment  was  not  long  delayed!  Ave  Maria,"  and  he  re- 
peated several  prayers  that  I  did  not  heed. 

"  We  will  go  to  Venice  !  "  I  said,  when  he  arose. 

"  Then  I  have  found  a  man  !  "  he  cried,  with  his  face  on 
fire. 

I  gave  him  my  arm  and  went  home  with  him.  We  reached 
the  gates  of  the  Blind  Asylum  just  as  some  of  the  wedding- 
guests  were  returning  along  the  street,  shouting  at  the  top  of 
their  voices.  He  squeezed  my  hand. 

"  Shall  we  start  to-morrow?  "  he  asked. 

"As  soon  as  we  can  get  some  money." 

"  But  we  can  go  on  foot.  I  will  beg.  I  am  strong,  and  you 
feel  young  when  you  see  gold  before  you." 

Facino  Cane  died  before  the  winter  was  out,  after  a  two 
months'  illness.  The  poor  man  had  taken  a  chill. 

PARIS,  March,  1836. 


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